Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Absolute insanity.
That was my history with Holden Verity from the day my grandfather made him my second shadow.
Unwanted bodyguard. Strict warden. The older, stone-faced giant who yanked me out of trouble before I could enjoy it.
Now, I’m all grown up. Older and wiser (supposedly). Definitely in trouble again.
Gramps left me a priceless treasure—the kind people kill for—and guess who else I inherited?
A familiar white knight with a black heart.
I still hate him every time he growls in my face.
I hate him a little less once I find out he’s raising the sweetest little girl.
I hate him in ways I never knew I could when we’re stuck in one bed.
And after the walls close in, after I’m under his roof, after his kisses shred my last thread of sanity, that hate is all I have to cling to.
Because the second I let go, this bittersweet temptation will swallow me whole.
And falling for Holden Verity is a long, heart-wrecking way down
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
HIDDEN TREASURE (CLEO)
As my car skids to a stop at the end of the long, winding driveway, that hole in my chest deepens.
Above me, PopPop’s vacant mansion stares down, the windows blank and empty as an unmarked grave.
Only, I know there’s someone up there today, waiting for me.
The lawyer.
Little comfort. My brain spins through a slideshow of black windows and death and ghosts whispering through legal documents.
Dread and anxiety in full control. But what else is new?
If I had a therapist, I’d fire her.
I sigh until my chest rattles.
It’s been a while since I was here.
A few years, actually.
PopPop died over a year ago, but old summers are fresh in my mind. It seems like just yesterday we were walking the rocky shores or laughing in the kitchen. Then I went off to college, time condensed, and I lost the plot.
Life rolled on without happy sunwashed days and smiles.
Life continued without the man who was so much more than a grandfather.
I fucking hate that he died alone.
Stubborn and brave to the bitter end, he hid his sickness from the whole family. He wanted to go out on his terms, surrounded by no one but dutiful nurses.
Dad says that’s what he got for being such a ‘miserly old bastard.’
Actually, it’s Dad’s fault that I’m the one showing up here today instead of him, collecting an inheritance I barely care about. It’s been delayed for over a year.
Everyone’s been so tight-lipped about it since the old man died, so I can’t imagine it’ll amount to much. A small piece of Gramps’ fortune he was wise enough not to leave to my father, maybe.
I should be so lucky if it’s that bland.
Nothing like the freaking arranged marriage fiasco or the lake house drama my cousins inherited.
I’m not bitter.
Unlike Dad, who hates the fact that he wasn’t given a few more parting freebies.
Gordon Blackthorn wore the black sheep badge proudly.
Bad with money, bad with relationships, meh at raising me, and awful at having his shit together.
Unfortunately, reputations rub off like lint. Too many people think the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, especially after Dad left his nasty mark in the art world.
His sins cover me like a second shadow.
A chill wind sweeps in, too cold for April in Maine. It’s like we’ve skipped back to February, when the air tries to strip your bones clean.
I open the car door and step out gently.
The house glares down like an angry statue.
Honestly, PopPop was smart not to leave Dad a trust or anything. He already gave him enough. He tried.
If that makes me the disloyal daughter, oh well. But Leonidas Blackthorn knew where to invest his money. That’s why he got stinking rich and built a real estate empire up and down the Atlantic coast.
Dad wasn’t a good investment—just an emotional one. I wonder what that makes me.
Why am I here, really?
Why did it take so long?
I can’t believe it’s been years since we last sat across from each other by a roaring fire, always some oversized book clutched in his bony hands. I was only twenty, smack in the middle of my art program.
The same warm house.
The same stories that transcended truth and fiction from his travels.
Same jokes. Same gentle encouragement and grand lessons about life.
Same Gramps, but now he’s gone forever.
My stomach twists.
Grief is weird like that, the way it comes in waves.
One minute, you’re fine and a little misty-eyed about the past. The next, the bear trap slams shut on your heart and you’re doubled over with pain, the depressing finality.
I’m almost glad there wasn’t a funeral.
PopPop didn’t allow it. He knew all of us being there mourning would hurt too much.
But the pain burns my lungs, so acute I have to breathe through clenched teeth.
Ice-cold air runs through me like loss reaching its grubby fingers down my throat, stealing a piece of me.
You have to get used to it, though.
You have to press on with the vicious cycle called life.
My feet feel numb on the pavement. Even the sky scowls down, grey and indifferent.
I pull out my phone and snap a picture.
No matter how crappy I feel right now, maybe later I’ll put this on canvas to decompress. Oils, maybe.
Something messy, tactile, moody.
I’ll call it Gone. Or something more pretentious like Drifting Clouds just to keep people guessing.
Ahead, the house looms closer with every step, a sleeping giant just waiting to swallow me.
PopPop never did like modern. It’s a hulking colonial-style house with a veranda that wraps around the side and its extensive gardens, just dripping New England old money. By the looks of the green stems pushing through the dirt behind the skeletal brush, someone kept up the landscaping after his death.
I used to play hide and seek out here. There were wind chimes hanging over the porch, and some days I’d hunker down and hide, just listening to their clanging secrets.