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)
“Oh my God. Just when I thought we might be able to work together, you have to do that.” I tap the edge of my phone against my hand.
“That?”
“That asshole old man thing. The thing where you bow up like an alley cat and act like I’m still sixteen with no life experience.”
“That is called due diligence. It’s a good thing, for everyone’s sake,” he insists. “I can run background checks, deep personal histories, lean on private investigators if I need to. All part of keeping you from walking into a scam. Also, I’m thirty-eight, smartass.”
“Oh sure. Forgot you were Mr. CIA. You’re so unbearable,” I hiss.
“If that’s my only crime, I plead guilty.” His sigh sounds like it contains all the air in his body.
“Keep going. You’re still doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“The sanctimonious thing. That annoying fucking thing where you act like you’re still my chaperone,” I snap. “I looked into him, all right? It’s a basic meeting at an office in New York. We’re not going to wind up with mafia guys stuffing us into the trunk or whatever you’re thinking.” I hold up my hands and sigh sharply. “And yes, I know it’s sensitive. But if we just sit on the egg instead of asking questions, at least getting it looked at, this never goes anywhere. We have to trust someone enough to get an actual opinion.”
He isn’t satisfied.
Holden doesn’t think I’ve picked the right man when he hasn’t given Fairfax a glance. Even though he said he trusted me to take the lead on the art side.
Just when I thought he’d start dealing with me like an adult.
His nostrils flare. “I’m not your chaperone, Cleo Blackthorn. I’m your goddamned protector.”
“Yeah? Then you should trust me to protect my valuables.” I hate how my voice breaks.
How he makes me so mad I’m on the verge of doing that squeaky, ragey sound I’ve tried to suppress my whole life.
Thanks, Dad. Many shouting matches with his dumb, drunken ass growing up put that there.
I inhale deeply and hold it, closing my eyes. Too long.
“What’s going on?” His voice softens as he steps closer. “Shit, I didn’t mean to set you off.”
So close. I can feel his massive presence, his radiating heat, before I even open my eyes a second later.
“It’s called working in tandem. Together. Compartmentalization,” he explains. “Find a buyer. That’s your job. Mine is to vet them. I have ways of sniffing out security risks you don’t. I need to trust you, yeah. You need to give me the same courtesy.”
“You… you can’t keep doing that,” I say miserably.
“What?” He shakes his head.
“Being reasonable.” I want to spit.
Instead, I don’t know what’s happening when he grabs my hands and gently pulls them to his chest. He holds them in his firm grip, sheltering them, sheltering me.
I cannot and will not cry. There’s been too much of that lately.
But he flips me like a switch. A second later, I feel better.
And I’m only disappointed he doesn’t lift my fingers to that rough, stern mouth, hidden behind its halo of dark scruff.
“You have dinner plans? I should run home to Kit for a quick check before the flight tomorrow. If you need food, I’ll take care of it.”
“No, it’s fine, go knock yourself out. I’m having dinner with my dad tonight.”
“You’re ready for that conversation?” His eyes widen. “You’re sure?”
I take a step back, desperate for breathing space. Room for so many conflicted thoughts.
“I said it’s fine. Dad’s my problem, Holden, not yours. I appreciate you setting up the meeting and the plane. I can deal with my father without a babysitter.”
Then I turn my back and walk away.
My back burns the whole time.
I just know his heavy gaze lingers until I disappear down the hall.
The chowder place in Portland we meet at feels downright tacky under the neon lights. Old fishing gear and lobster posters everywhere, like someone wanted to parody their own food.
I’ve squeezed into a cramped booth with an iced tea in front of me and an angry knot in my stomach.
Holden is such a piece of work. The type of work that knocks you flatter than running a marathon.
And meeting Dad, won’t that be—
Well, seeing him occupies that baffling space between bittersweet and hell frozen over.
Bittersweet because he acts like he’s happy to see me. He always wants to catch up, and sometimes I start feeling like he might care about my life. The illusion usually lasts for roughly a half hour before the horns come out.
Then he hits me with his latest tale of woe. He’s the world’s biggest victim, in case I forgot it for five seconds.
Sometimes, he comes sniffing for art connections. Mine, which I guard jealously, even when I have to lie through my teeth.
Also, he’s my dad.
I love him in that messy way you only know when you’ve accepted love will never be perfect—or clearly reciprocated.