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)
“Very kind of him. Thank you,” I whisper.
“Now, the grand finale,” Miss Wilkes says. “The most prized piece in his sizable art collection.”
“Art?” As far as I recall, there’s probably nothing that valuable left in the house. Most of the art should’ve been dealt with months ago.
“His other pieces were auctioned off last year,” Jackie confirms. “The final batch is set for private sale soon, but he was adamant he doesn’t want that for this special piece.” She stands again, tucking the paperwork back into her folder. “It’s better if I show you. Just as soon as the rest of our party arrives.”
The rest of our party? What party?
This keeps getting weirder.
“Who’s coming?” I ask, but before Wilkes can answer, there’s a heavy rapping at the door.
“Come in!” she calls.
The door opens.
A man’s enormous silhouette fills the doorway, a human wall built for punishment.
Jet-black hair.
Deep-brown eyes set in an angular, hard face.
Lips that look like they were made for barking orders and spitting people out.
He’s a human golem, over six feet of stone and bad attitude. Unrealistic, unfair, uncompromising perfection.
No, unrealistic physical perfection.
I remember him on sight. Then I remember how deeply flawed the personality is attached to this beast.
Moody McMiserable, in the flesh. The big, hired asshole who put a damper on every fun time here.
I haven’t seen him in years, which was a relief every time. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if Gramps kept him on payroll during my last couple visits.
He may look like Hercules’ older, angrier brother, but his personality is somewhere between dead fish and inanimate rock.
Who knew the ninth circle of hell could be so boring? He definitely crawled out of it just to ruin everything.
Gramps’ head of security.
Holden goddamned Verity.
Holy shit.
I had no clue he was still around. I have even less idea why he’s here now, smirking at me without quirking his lips.
It’s those eyes, brown and amused, like a grizzly bear watching a salmon flopping helplessly.
Right now, that salmon is me.
Every summer I’d visit, he was the glorified babysitter, the keeper I never asked for, appointed to make sure I didn’t get in trouble. I know Ethan hated him too, but I’d like to think I had it worse.
My older cousins called him Holden Hardass for a reason.
Sure, looking back, I can appreciate he was just trying to do the right thing, keeping the grandkids out of trouble. And yes, if I was left to my own devices, I wouldn’t have always made good choices.
At the time, I hated him for it.
He made it clear he thought chasing me was beneath him. Policing a bratty teenage girl was clearly beneath his pay grade, so he made sure I’d sit in my room and never cause any trouble if Gramps wanted me to stay at home.
Obviously, that wasn’t what I wanted.
It’s safe to say we didn’t get along.
I’ll never understand how my grandfather kept him employed for so many years or what he saw in this workhorse besides raw, intimidating muscle. Or why he’s clearly still around now, I guess.
There’s no reality where Holden being here means anything good.
Then comes the next surprise.
A small girl follows him into the room, her head cocked as she looks around, taking in the mansion. She can’t be older than ten, I bet.
She has his dark hair and firm brows. Nice height and a bone structure a lot of folks would kill for.
Some people just win the genetic lottery.
It’s obvious from the similarities between them that this girl in her pink kitty cat shirt and jeans must be his daughter.
Holden’s daughter.
Holy crap.
My brain stutters, probably out loud.
Holden’s scowl deepens, like he can see my brain locking up.
“Sorry we’re running late,” he rumbles. “Kit had to drop off a library book.”
I think my jaw drops. Hits the ground. Probably shatters.
I stare into his craggy, unyielding face.
“You’re a dad?” I blurt. “You?”
This girl isn’t that little, which means she existed when I’d visit as a kid.
How did he never mention her? I mean, not that I ever bothered to ask about his stuffy, boring life.
He folds his arms. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t notice the way his muscles bulge under his clinging sweater, which looks like it’s on the verge of tearing.
“Hello to you too, brat. Surprised?”
Unfortunately.
Because for him to have a daughter, it means some crazy woman had to get past his repulsive accountant-meets-gym-rat personality enough to want to sleep with him.
To bear his child.
To raise his kid.
And then to let him cart her around as his daughter.
Holy flaming crap. I might fall over.
Is he married? Is he a full-blown family guy?
I scan his finger for any sign of a ring, but I don’t see one.
I have so many questions he won’t like, but I can’t say anything with his little girl standing there, staring at me with soft, curious eyes.