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)
When you’re my size, people know you don’t back down from a fight. Animal instinct.
No matter how much we like to think we’re higher up the monkey tree from all the other creatures, humans still respond viscerally to beasts with size and attitude.
Not that I feel very beastly after years hacking spreadsheets down to size and trying to stay awake during long video meetings with investors.
Have I lost my edge?
Right now, this woman doesn’t seem to give a shit.
Interesting.
Her chin tilts up, high and sharp. She glares at me like she’s trying to decide if she can run or maybe go straight for my eyes with those long, manicured nails in pastel pink.
“Whatever,” she says finally. “Call them, dude. Then they can arrest you for trespassing on my property.”
“Trespassing?” I spit the word back. “You’re the one who barged in and tried to take my daughter!”
“Take your dau—” She hisses furiously and rips the shades off her head, freeing her gold-spun hair. “Are you serious right now? Like, is this some sort of fucking joke?” Her eyes flick to Soph and her face screws up. “Um. Sorry, kid.”
“It’s cool,” Sophie says, brushing my sleeve as she steps forward. “Dad, she was just—”
“Not cool, Soph. Let me handle her.”
The woman rolls her eyes, brazenly unafraid.
Fuck.
For someone who just shamelessly broke into my rental house, she’s bold as hell, and I feel a grudging twitch of respect.
Doesn’t change the fact that I can and will have her blonde ass arrested if she doesn’t give me one good reason why she’s here—and fast.
“Don’t hold back on my account.” She folds her arms, the sunglasses still dangling from her fingers. “What are you going to do? Pick a fight? Punch me through a wall? You don’t scare me, Dadzilla. And you’re not dialing the cops yet, either.”
“Dadzilla?” I stare through her, wondering if she’s mentally younger than my daughter. “Are you being funny right now?”
“No, actually. I’m being pretty serious, considering you’re treating me like I’m a criminal and I own this place.”
“You had your hands on my daughter,” I growl.
“I was catching her. How many times do I have to say it?” She gives Sophie another quick glance, her brows drawn together like she’s worried Soph will flip any second, trading her fear for my attitude. “Have you tried being decent? Maybe thanking me instead of threatening to have me arrested? You’re welcome.”
Sophie tugs my arm again, and I finally look down at her, reluctantly pulling my attention off the woman.
“Daaad,” she whispers. “It’s true. Everything she said. I was leaning over the railing to look down because I heard a noise, and it broke. The lady caught me.”
“You’re welcome, girlie. That’s better,” the woman says too brightly. “But I’ll admit it was lucky I broke her fall. We scared each other out of our wits. Either way, we’re both miraculously unharmed.”
For the first time, I notice the large splinters on the floor. When I glance up, there’s a gaping hole in the railing.
“You fell from up there?” I confirm quickly with Sophie, my eyes still fixed on the woman. “Are you okay?”
“I spun around too fast. But yeah, I’m fine, Dad.”
“See?” the woman prods. “Now, maybe you won’t mind explaining who you are and what you’re doing in my house?”
“Your house? Come on. Take the comedy act somewhere else.” I snort.
“Yes, my house. Why do you think I’m here? How do you think I got in?” She gestures around the entire room, turning a full 360. “You think I just go around breaking into people’s homes and scaring their children for fun?”
“How would I know, woman? No clue who you are.” I fold my arms right back, glaring at her. “I know for a fact you don’t own this place. I did my research before I booked it. It’s a Blackthorn property, and you don’t look like Leonidas Blackthorn.”
Her face changes, so fast I almost miss it.
A flicker, the flame dimming in her eyes.
A second later, it’s back, though, and dialed up in intensity.
“Obviously,” she clips. “I’m his granddaughter, Margot Blackthorn. He died months ago—didn’t you know?”
I was aware, but I didn’t think that she would be.
I just assumed—
Shit.
In New York, you’d have to live under a damn rock to avoid hearing the name Blackthorn. That goes double in New England, especially in this small town, Sully Bay.
The Blackthorns are one of the heavy hitters on the Eastern Seaboard, and easily the wealthiest family in Maine. Even national journals covered his death and the company’s aftermath for weeks.
Now I’m face-to-face with this woman, who’s claiming to be one?
Fucking doubtful.
Where’s her entourage? Her staffers and bodyguards?
I give her another stone-cold look of frosted skepticism.
Designer sunglasses.
Blonde streaks in her hair, almost certainly from a high-end salon.
Black leather jacket, molded to her body, and jeans.
Casual enough, but the way it sits on her frame tells me that she chose this outfit deliberately. And that leather isn’t some cheap knockoff material. It’s the very expensive real deal.