Chapter 3
HAPPY HOUSEWARMING (MARGOT)
What a freaking day.
I spend the evening holed up in my room, or what counts as my room now.
I haven’t had much time to make it mine yet. Little Sophie took the old room I used to claim when I’d come here as a kid, and the décor in this barely used guest room is way too beige.
With an old family photo on the desk I swiped from downstairs and lights strung around the mirror on the wall, it’s finally a bit brighter.
I make a mental note to buy some furniture ASAP on the off chance I decide to keep this place. Maybe even if I don’t.
A splash of color never hurt anyone.
But PopPop liked his old-world rustic charm. He was onto the organic earthy look before it ever became a modern trend.
Thankfully, there’s a desk in the corner.
I throw myself into the office chair in front of it, one leg tucked under my rear. Gramps’ cryptic letter sits off to one side like a taunting demon.
Or is that my tablet tonight?
It’s perched in front of me, the screen blank. With my stylus in hand, I halfheartedly try to finish up my latest shoe design with a little AI-assisted variation.
None of the two dozen options it spits out feel right.
It’s not vibing.
And I’m not relaxed, my anxiety soaring as my creative spark wimps out.
Before, I hoped I’d get to chill by coming up here.
Nope!
Below, there’s a steady beat, like someone’s doing a drum solo, banging away like their life depends on it.
The little boy, maybe.
Dan.
He looked like the kid musician type. All gangly preteen and fresh-faced mischief in his eyes. Athletic, too, which probably means he’s into drums when his school band made him choose an instrument.
Back when I was in high school band, the rowdy boys into sports always picked the biggest noisemakers. Drums, trumpets, saxophones, you name it.
I’d be surprised if the little girl was into something so obnoxious.
At least the family’s all settled in, I guess.
Even if their dad could use an attitude transplant or three.
Ugh, Kane.
This must be the tenth time I’ve thought of him since I shut myself away.
The expression on his face when he thought I was kidnapping his daughter…
So ridiculous.
Total overreaction.
How is that a reasonable assumption when you see a strange woman helping your kid off the floor?
Then again, what do I know about parenting?
But didn’t he see the splintered wood?
The obvious fact that his daughter fell?
Nah.
Dadzilla just had to jump to conclusions, right off the cliff.
He had to assume the worst, thinking I was some wild-eyed gremlin coming to carry his little girl off to my gingerbread house in the woods.
Who even thinks like that?
Is there something about me that seems threatening?
Gawd.
Also, this whole situation sucks more because he’s hot.
And why not?
Normal, well-adjusted guys are often so mid. Probably because they’re confident enough to avoid becoming cyclones of testosterone who treat gym like church.
I stare into empty space, scowling at his hotness.
If he could just be the bastard offspring of a garden gnome and a gargoyle, I wouldn’t dislike him so much. You can understand why someone so ugly might have a chip on their shoulder.
But Kane has the looks that set your life to easy mode—and that makes his bristling rudeness far less acceptable.
There was something jarring about those jade-green eyes, too.
Almost like he could see right through me.
Obviously, he couldn’t if he thought I’d ever lay a hand on his sweet girl.
Stupid overgrown ego.
Still, those mile-wide shoulders stick in my mind. I hate how tall he is, how easily he can look down on—well, everyone.
The man is a freak of nature. He must’ve been a beast at some sport when he was young, back before his well-connected daddy handed him his quant finance job.
Just a wild guess.
And I know, I should talk.
Doesn’t change the fact that I’m dealing with a giant daddy’s boy who’s used to getting his way. All self-propelled, pure entitlement.
Although when he figured out he was the intruder in my home, he backed down, didn’t he?
Surprise.
That, plus the sad, worried look on the kids’ faces was what convinced me to let them stay. I’m not in the habit of crashing with strangers.
And I’m still not sure if I made the right call.
At least it saves me a potential legal flap, though. After I saw the rates Mrs. Griffith was charging, he had every right to be pissed.
Maybe I don’t like him, but the man has kids.
Why should a goofy mix-up ruin their family vacation?
I glance at the photo on the desk and sigh.
PopPop and his whole ‘summer crew’—Ethan, Cleo, Hattie, and yours truly. Probably about twelve years ago.
We spent the day hiking the woods, wandering overgrown trails just a few miles from the lake. Ethan tried to scare us with bigfoot stories until PopPop put an end to it.
I’ll never forget the way my grandfather snuck up on him and growled like a cave bear.
The shock knocked the cigarette Ethan shouldn’t have even had right out of his mouth.
I catch myself laughing and shake my head.
This house is a time capsule. Made for memories, not living in the present.
Besides, it’s not like having the Saints here will be a big problem.
It’s a massive place.
I have a feeling they’ll be out during the day plenty, leaving me lots of space and quiet to poke around.
Honestly, the fact that Dadzilla wasn’t livid over the safety tells me a lot.
If it was me, and I’d paid Mrs. Griffith’s princely sum, only to wind up with my daughter falling, I’d be furious.
I’m still embarrassed.
If I knew this place had deteriorated so much in the years since our family trips ended, I’d have had contractors lined up. And I would’ve politely told our kind local property manager to pull the place off the market.
It’s crazy the Saint-devil didn’t threaten to sue.
Huge relief, really.
And drumming aside, his kids don’t seem like they’ll be too awful.
I push back from the desk with a deflated sigh and find my phone, pulling up Jackie Wilkes’ contact. It’s pretty late for the lawyer to be at the office, but we pay her too much not to be available on short notice.
I can’t imagine her at home. She’s a legal killing machine who lives and breathes documents.
Exactly the kind of woman my grandfather would leave in charge of his estate.
“Miss Blackthorn,” she greets me. Her voice is brisk and efficient, no hint of any irritation at calling past eight o’clock. “What can I do you for?”
“I made it to the lake house,” I say, neglecting to mention my guests. “And I’ve read the letter.”
“Excellent. I was going to call you in a few days to make sure you had.”
Yep. Detailed to a fault.
“But I have a few questions… He said there’s something hidden here to find? I’m not sure how to take that, but I wondered if you know anything else about it?”
“Did he? Can you be more specific?”
I wince, remembering the letter was for my eyes only. That probably means Leonidas Blackthorn left no other hints with his lawyer.
“Wish I could. It didn’t really say. Not explicitly, anyway.” I roll my eyes, but a wave of fondness overwhelms me. PopPop had his flaws, but I still love him. “He talked a lot about regrets and he called it his ‘greatest truth.’”
“Curious,” Jackie says. “Well, I have a recent inventory of the house’s contents at the time of his death, and regular updates from the last few months, courtesy of Holden Verity. I can send them over, but I’ve gone through the lists myself. I doubt you’ll find anything too useful there.”
Damn.
If it made Jackie Wilkes yawn, there’s zero chance I’ll find anything helpful.
“I thought you might have a guess what he meant?”
Silence.
I’m sure she’s secretly laughing at me. This woman is so not the guessing type.
“I’m afraid I can’t speculate, Miss Blackthorn.
” Her voice softens. “You know your grandfather was notoriously private with family affairs. He didn’t provide me with any long explanations—not in your brother’s case and not in yours.
My only role ends with executing his last wishes.
If I could read his mind, so much would be less complicated. ”
Believe me, I know.
But it doesn’t answer my questions, and they gnaw at my belly.
Not her fault, though.
So I just doodle my signature in the corner of my shoe design.
“I get it, just thought I’d check. Thanks, Jackie.”
“Certainly. Is there anything else I can help with?”
Unless she has a time machine so I can ask my grandfather what the hell he meant, no. I shake my head, even though she can’t see me, and lean back in my chair.
I think the drumming downstairs has stopped.
“No, but thanks again. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”
“Understood.” Jackie hesitates, then adds, uncharacteristically, “Good luck with the hunt, Miss Blackthorn. I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay. He loved the old house passionately.”
“Yes, he did. Thanks,” I mutter, trying not to tear up.
I disconnect and slump down in my seat, boneless.
After everything Ethan went through to inherit Blackthorn Holdings, he’s the only one who could understand what I’m feeling.
It must be bad when I start wishing my dumb brother was here.
If only to help me survive Gramps’ last game, without the Saints complicating everything.
The old house might be worn down, but it’s surprisingly noise resistant.
When I wake up in the morning, eye mask still on, I discover that even though I forgot my earbuds, I slept pretty well.
Soft gold sunlight streams through a gap in the curtains.
My body has that warm, pleasant feel after a deep sleep. Given how I’ve slept recently, it’s probably overdue.
Just weird that it hit here of all places.
I swing my feet out of bed and listen.
Nothing.
The only sign I’m not alone in the house is the tantalizing scent drifting through my closed door.
My stomach rumbles. I realize I skipped out on dinner yesterday between getting unpacked and everything sorted after so much drama.
First thing’s first—I need to get showered and dressed.