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)
She puts her fist on her hip like she’s gearing up for a fight.
“I’ve painted a bedroom before, you know.” Her voice is teasing, but I just stare at her.
“Never said you couldn’t. I think it’s a bad idea to go bolder like this without an expert weighing in, that’s all.”
“Well, okay. I guess.” Her hand falls back to her side and her posture softens.
Like my lack of humor has knocked the wind out of her sails.
I’m sure she expected something more constructive or maybe for me to join in with her teasing, considering the almost-flirting last night, but the app soured the mood.
If she knew who owned that technology, she’d understand.
“The metal detectors are back this way. Think I even spotted a thermal tool for seeing behind walls,” I say, nodding at the kids to follow us.
“Can we rent them both? That would be super helpful.” She jams her phone back in her pocket and follows me.
Relief cools my blood, knowing we’ve moved on from AI bullshit.
“I think so. If there’s anything behind the walls to worry about, we’ll find it.” I play it cool, not saying much more in front of the kids.
If they get one whiff about hidden treasure in the house, they’ll howl until I start knocking holes in the walls.
Margot looks at me but doesn’t comment on the we part.
Just like she doesn’t say anything else about shooting down the app consultation. I’m sure it comes off as weird and old-school.
Who isn’t embracing AI-powered everything with wide-open arms to make their lives better?
I need to do better.
Keep it the fuck together, man.
She insists on paying for the tools, and I allow it.
Technically, she’s the homeowner, after all.
The sun feels warmer as we step outside, burning away the last of the morning mist by the time we head back to the vehicle.
The kids rush back to our SUV. Margot sees a poster on the side of the hardware store before we leave.
“Farmers and crafts market today?” Her expression lights up. “Okay, now we have to make another stop. It’s just a couple blocks away.”
Her eyes shine like she’s one with the sun.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she echoes. “It’ll be fun. Don’t you like a little spontaneity, Kane Saint?”
I grit my teeth.
“If you think spontaneity means tromping around a farmers market when you’re already struggling to eat up half a ton of blueberries, you should redefine fun,” I growl, but I’m already following her, waving Dan and Sophie over.
“It’s not just a farmers market. It’s a farmers and crafts market.” She holds up a finger. “Important distinction.”
In this town, she isn’t wrong.
Sully Bay isn’t a big place.
It’s one main street cutting through the business district, a couple eateries, and one or two touristy stores selling tacky souvenirs. The market takes up the whole center of town, tents and stalls set up all along the sidewalk.
It’s the epitome of small-town excitement.
A band plays covers of eighties hits, which is perfect for the crowd. There are a few younger people in their teens and twenties wandering around, but most of the folks here look middle-aged, if not pushing into their senior years.
“Awesome,” Sophie declares, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“See? Listen to your kiddo.” Margot flashes me a knowing smile.
Most of the stalls are hawking local produce, honey, and more blueberries like they’re the local currency.
Of course, the quality is obscenely good.
Sophie pops into a craft stall, looking over a row of birthstone necklaces. Dan hovers at the next one over, keenly scanning some intricate wooden carvings of animals.
Margot struts around like she was born for this.
For a billionaire’s granddaughter, she’s no oversophisticated snob.
I fucking hate how refreshing that is.
She flicks her hair back over her shoulders, dazzling the stall owners with her breathtaking smile, pausing to make polite conversation with a few artists.
Still, nothing grabs her until she comes to a stall filled with ceramics.
I’ll admit, they’re impressive. Artisan quality like you see at the fine shops in New York or whenever I’ve traveled to the West Coast art malls.
Huge urns, bowls, and cups bursting with colors and a glossy finish that makes them look museum-grade.
Some have swirling blue and green patterns, the edges fading to a darker brown. Others look like stone on the outside, with muddy red or dark-purple accents inside.
“Wow!” Sophie’s eyes go wide behind her glasses as she peers in for a closer look at a bowl. “How do you think he did this?”
Margot touches the tip of one finger to the rim of the bowl, her lips pursed in thought as she looks up. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Um. I dunno. Can you?” Sophie shakes her head so adamantly her glasses slide down her nose.
She’s such a shy girl and she doesn’t strike up conversations with strangers easily. Especially when they impress her.
“Go ahead. I bet he’d love to talk about his art. I’ll get you started.” Margot leans over the table, catching the eye of the man in the corner. She flashes him her showstopper smile. “Excuse me? My friend here has a question about your work.”