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)
Daniel’s less interested in her, thank God.
Then again, Dan’s focus wanders like a puppy if it isn’t directly related to sports, military history, or music.
Margot isn’t a drummer and she doesn’t play soccer. Right now, she’s just winning him over with food.
Whatever.
He’s too young to have a crush on her. I hope.
Because I’m way too fucking old to feel the weird spark of jealousy if he does.
After lunch, I head upstairs for a few minutes of privacy, leaving the kids to read and talk in the kitchen. Music plays gently on the portable Bluetooth speaker we brought along.
We’ll see how long it takes to start a fight.
Sophie loves to play the same pop lists ten times in a row.
I think Dan wants to burn everything Swift or Milah Holly related on sight.
They bicker damn near daily over what’s on Spotify when they’re in the same room. It might be the most tired and worn-out argument in our house.
I swing the door to my bedroom open and freeze.
Margot stands in the corner, her hands flat on the wall and—tapping?
What the hell is she doing?
The door creaks and she swings around, bright color flooding her cheeks. Sunlight streams in through the windows, adding a golden glow to her hair and making her blue eyes glitter with a rush of emotion I can’t quantify.
Then it fades as she squares her shoulders, trying to project calm.
Goddamn, she’s gorgeous in the deadliest ways.
All pouty lips. Softly appealing without any artificial puff.
I’m pretty sure she’s all natural, despite the salon highlights in her hair.
Her leggings cling to every line of her long, trim legs. The oversized tee over the top gives her a casual look today.
Plain and relaxed, but the way she wears her clothes makes them look like they were designed just for her.
“Miss Blackthorn,” I say her name like a gunshot.
Her eyes flare as they meet mine.
Sparks.
A second later, she’s bolting, stepping away from the wall with her hands in the air before she tucks them behind her back.
But it’s too late to play it cool, and I think she knows it.
“Shit!” She looks away for the first time. “I’m sorry. I thought you were still downstairs.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? Because that makes it okay to go pawing through my room?”
The hellfire red on her cheeks returns and deepens, extending down her neck until it lines her chest.
I can’t tell if she’s flushed from sheer irritation at having been caught or genuine embarrassment.
Hot anger boils my lungs.
Sure, she let us crash here, but that doesn’t mean we can trust her, and it damn sure doesn’t give her the right to go rifling through my room.
“No,” she says quietly. “Of course not. But I wasn’t going through your stuff!”
“Then explain. What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?”
“Right, I—” She gestures uselessly at the wall. “So, I know this looks bad—”
“You’re damn right. So does my patience.” I step closer, and she eyes the space between us warily. “Tell me what was so important you just had to invade my privacy, duchess.”
She stops and stares at me.
Fuck it, I know. I’m erupting and I’m past caring.
“I’m sorry!” she sputters. “But do we have to do the name-calling? No one’s called me that since middle school.”
Not an answer. Also, no sympathy.
The stubbornness on her face doesn’t weaken my resolve.
“Kane, I didn’t go through your things. Honest. I never touched a single drawer or your bags.”
My eyes scan every corner, cold and assessing.
At a glance, she might be telling the truth.
I haven’t had time to unpack much and make the space too personal yet, and my bags are right where I left them.
But that wasn’t the question and she knows it.
Margot Blackthorn isn’t stupid.
I fold my arms and wait.
Her gaze bounces off my chest.
Again, there’s a challenge in her eyes. Like she’s sizing me up in a very physical, visceral way.
When she inhales, her shoulders tighten.
“It’s my house,” she says.
“I’m aware. Just like I’m sure you know there are laws on the books that say you don’t barge in on paying guests unannounced. Blackthorn or not, you’re not goddamned royalty, duchess.”
Her face goes crimson as she pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs.
“I know that. You don’t enter without probable cause. It’s just… it’s my responsibility to look over everything and make sure it’s safe. Structurally sound. I wanted to check everything after that mess with the stairs.” Her voice is cool and composed, confident, and she doesn’t look away.
She’s a decent liar, I’ll give her that.
Only, the fact that she’s bluffing kicks anger through my gut.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s bullshitters.
“Uh-huh,” I say, matching her tone. “You didn’t tell me you were a building inspector.”
“Oh, I know some basics.”
Like hell.
“So is it, in your words, ‘structurally sound’?”
“Yes.” Her eyes skitter away from my face. “Couldn’t find anything too concerning when I knocked around.”