Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
That’s rare as hell, especially considering the situation.
This morning at breakfast, I should’ve known nothing would come easy with this strange woman around.
And now some neighbor wants to buy this place. That couple talked like they wanted to start negotiations immediately.
So much for a peaceful vacation, let alone figuring out what’s next.
But there’s a lot to love about this moment, just me and the whispering lake and not a video conference with people I hate in sight.
It’s an excuse to get outside and do nothing important.
Best of all, despite the coolness in the air, my old leg injury isn’t flaring up.
I usually dread the cold when temperatures plunge.
Like always, I stretch it out, but something stops me from going through the entire stretch routine my physical therapist drilled into my head.
No, not something.
Her.
Margot damn Blackthorn.
There’s a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I resist the urge to turn around.
If I do, I know I’ll catch her watching me again.
She’s up there now, creeping away from the big bay windows on the first floor, making me feel like the unwelcome party crasher I am.
Just my luck we’re stuck with her—a dash of extra chaos the Saints didn’t need on their first real family trip in years.
I call her type the Evil Blonde.
Bratty, affluent, annoyingly hot in that cool, sophisticated way, with long legs and big blue eyes that hypnotize men who let their guard down.
She’s a human cobra masquerading as a minx.
The sort of wicked witch who breaks hearts and doesn’t think twice about it before moving on to her next sucker.
She’s also an heiress to billions, which does make her different.
I’m no slouch in the money department, but I’m damn sure not old Blackthorn money. Much less Maine royalty.
Danger, my mind warns.
All my nerves bristle with the knowledge that being stuck with her has the potential to get all kinds of shitty.
Hell, the way she looked at me after breakfast when I rescued her from a blueberry bone fracture keeps replaying in my mind.
“Fucking stop that,” I growl, slapping my cheek.
She’s taking up too much real estate in my brain.
Annoying.
Everything I’ve been through, and the dumbass boy inside me still simps for a pretty face.
But she’s attractive in all the wrong ways, like she was made to wreck my defenses. That extra splash of feistiness that hooks under my skin doesn’t help.
Thank fuck the kids are around.
If I’d come up here on my own, just me and Little Miss Fancy Heels, it could’ve been catastrophic.
Exactly the kind of drama I don’t need.
Not after Daria, the divorce, and ten thousand glass shards ripping my life to pieces. If I have my way, I’ll be a monk for the next few years.
Absolute celibacy.
If that goes well, we’ll see about the rest of my life.
I turn my attention back to the dock, still feeling Margot’s eyes on the back of my neck.
By the looks of it, plus a few good stomps, the structure feels sound, though it’ll need some fixing before it’s totally safe.
I grab a cloth and run my hand over a rough-looking board.
Splinters peel off from a small rotted area around a nail, trying to jam into my skin.
Damn.
This thing needs a full sand and restaining, plus maybe a few boards replaced for good measure.
And all these nails—some are popping out after years of neglect.
I’ll tap them down, I decide.
It’s quicker and easier than trying to put new ones in, and although they’re rusty, the structure feels solid enough to keep anyone from falling through it.
Especially with Sophie and Dan around.
Trouble is, the kids won’t look for splinters or uneven nails before they go pounding along on the wood barefoot.
Somebody will wind up hurt if I leave it like this.
New rule: no screwing around on the docks until I’ve fixed it up. If there’s time, I’ll treat it, too.
Winter’s coming.
Future proofing never hurt.
That’s a mistake I’m never making again. I yank at some splinters, ripping them from the docks and leaving fresh, pale wood behind.
At least Dan and Sophie can get some fresh air out here.
They’ve always wanted to live somewhere like this, born lovers of the great outdoors, just like me.
For now, that’s fantasy, but this getaway should be good for the soul.
Grabbing this rental was spur-of-the-moment, and it was the right call. The best call to take the sting out of the past couple years leading to our divorce judgment.
But fuck—if I could’ve prevented that sting in the first place, I would have.
If I could’ve spared them the pain, the anger, the uncertainty, I would’ve given up my next fifty vacations.
My chest cramps, and I grit my teeth.
No matter how much Daria’s bullshit hurt—and yes, it fucking did—the thing that kills me the most is how the kids were caught in the middle.
How couldn’t they be?
Their mother went out ugly.