Chapter 4 #2
“I guess I did promise, huh? And you’re lucky I took care of the worst with the dock. I won’t keep you guys waiting, but you step where I tell you.” With my hands on their little shoulders, I steer them toward the small shed that’s sitting by the water, where I’ve hauled our canoe.
Sophie holds up the small telescope in her hand, making a big show of playing pirate, swinging it around.
“Arrr, I’m ready, Captain Dad!”
“Keep it straight, little matey. Remember what I told you about where to look with that thing?”
She rolls her eyes, mouthing, “I know.”
Just like I know I’m going to have my hands full with her in a few years, especially if she turns out a fraction as spoiled as Margot Blackthorn.
Stop thinking about her, idiot.
“Okay,” I tell them. “Let’s get the boat into the water.”
It’s heaven on the lake.
The kids turn into dynamos, both of them talking my ear off about the scenery and pointing out damn near every bird nestled in the trees. When a young moose bolts into the woods after taking a drink, it takes half an hour to calm them down.
Sophie spends her time after that staring at the opposite shore with her telescope, moose hunting, while Dan helps me paddle.
At least I can put one of them to work to help burn off some energy.
By the time we return to the house and pull up the canoe, they’re exhausted and damp from getting splashed on the way back up onto the dock. I send them upstairs to change as I get started on lunch.
Thankfully, the kitchen’s empty.
The sigh of relief slams to a halt in my lungs when I see the plate in the middle of the counter under a glass cake dome.
Blueberry muffins, courtesy of Miss Blackthorn.
There’s a note beside it, too, written in the pretty, flowing handwriting of someone who went to a private school. Probably the only place on Earth where they still mint kids who care about their cursive.
I pick it up and read.
Breakfast hit the spot and I thought I’d return the favor. Help yourselves!
Fucking great.
Like Sophie needs another excuse to fangirl over Margot Blackthorn.
She only mentioned her about a dozen times out on the water.
No surprise when Margot’s pretty, shoe-obsessed, and visually successful.
Everything I worry about my little girl trying to idolize. I grew up comfortable, not stupidly rich, and there are dangers to spoiling her too much.
I don’t want blue-blooded young women with Instagram model looks setting her standards.
Then again, doesn’t every kid need a positive role model?
Someone who isn’t her mom.
However much Margot annoys me, she let us stay. Plus, she has a profession that isn’t modeling in obscure locations with a string of revolving boyfriends.
Fuck.
I don’t dislike her, necessarily.
Maybe my cave bear instinct just comes out because I don’t want more trouble. We’ve had our limit.
“Are those muffins? Score!” Predictably, Dan’s the first one back in the kitchen. His hair is still damp from his shower, sticking up in all directions like a human cactus, and there’s a redness in his cheeks I haven’t seen in a while.
“Just one before lunch,” I warn as he rips the glass cover off. “If you’re still hungry, you can have another one after we eat.”
Sophie gasps as she clatters into the kitchen, stumbling against the counter in her excitement. The ortho shoes aren’t always great for a kid’s balance, either.
She flushes, but her beady little eyes are fixed on the muffin stack.
“Margot made these?” she asks.
It seems obvious.
Yet I still have to pinch my jaw to bite back my irritation.
After our morning on the lake, it’s a godsend to two hungry kids, and even I have to agree it’s homey.
Damnably so.
The room still smells like a bakery, all sugar and berries and batter.
“See? I told you she was cool,” Sophie says, taking an enormous bite. Her eyes roll back in her head. “Yum! Her baking game’s on point too, Dad. Try it.”
“Yeah, she could teach you a thing or two,” Dan tells me, smacking his lips.
I snort loudly, snagging one on my way to the fridge.
We’ll just see about that.
“Keep talking like that, Bud, and you’ll be making us lunch.”
Dan’s eyes bulge and he shakes his head.
“Okay, okay! But why not just have the muffins instead?”
“Absolutely not. You need nutrition. When you’re older, you’ll appreciate your old man caring about your macros and glucose levels.”
I bite into the muffin, expecting to be overwhelmed, but—
Shit.
A blueberry cake rainbow floods my mouth.
I’m not sure I’ve had anything baked this good in ages. That includes the best places back home, and even the times when I’d pop into the Sugar Bowl on trips to Kansas City in my younger days. I think the old lady who owned the place then did black magic with a mixing bowl.
Unfortunately, this muffin tastes too close for comfort.
And now I have to add outrageously good baker to Margot Blackthorn’s mile-long list of red flags.
I’m just glad she isn’t here to see her stupid muffin make my eyes roll.
And she doesn’t butt in to disturb us as I throw together chicken salad on whole wheat bread for lunch with heaping bowls of those fresh blueberries as sides.
The muffin offering doesn’t help Sophie’s budding obsession with her new friend. I count fifteen separate mentions of Margot in the twenty minutes it takes to eat lunch together.
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.”