Chapter 17 Far From Home #2
I’m no stranger to the limelight and cameras rudely flashing in my face. Or clickbaity people posting scandalous whispers about me online. It’s incredible how much having a fortune makes the world oh-so-interested in who you’re dating or just hooking up with.
Spoiler: the whispers are usually wrong.
Sometimes, you wish for the dating crap when the made-up alternatives turn fucking cruel.
One disgruntled personal chef my mother let go when I came home from college on Thanksgiving break turns into an exposé on how Margot Blackthorn is such a finicky eater. Why, she threw a fit until her parents canned a woman with Michelin star experience and five kids to feed.
And yes, I must be a spoiled bitch because I can fly private and work on my ‘tacky’ shoe designs at forty thousand feet.
Just another talentless rich girl who had the moon handed to her.
Just like her folks.
That one hurt the most, honestly.
When people compare me to Scott and Elvira Blackthorn, and not to Gramps. With Ethan, it’s different because he inherited the family empire.
Kane should also be used to the searing spotlight and people falling all over themselves to shred you just so they can walk away with a few pieces of your ego as souvenirs.
That’s what being famous is—forking over bloody scraps of yourself so the public can bite and tear and taste whatever they imagine.
Ideally, you choose what pieces they get in their hungry little teeth.
Kane didn’t want to give them us—however much ‘us’ there is—and at some level it makes sense.
He wanted to keep his time here private and special.
With the divorce and the whole leaving his company thing, that’s more complicated. People have been speculating, making him out to be some kind of rich supervillain. But that’s all surface stuff.
It doesn’t matter.
And in all my dealings with him, he’s never been the bad guy.
I look up at the stars again through the window, my chest tight.
My eyes burn, but I don’t let myself cry.
I’m still light on tears.
When Gramps died, I cried so much I felt sick for days. But I never let myself cry over men who aren’t family.
Not since Kelso.
Kane’s rich laughter floats up to my room.
He chuckles at something Sophie says, and the ache in my chest threatens to swallow me.
Deep down, I know he’s right.
We should’ve been more careful.
It was a blunder any way you slice it, getting involved with an older, divorced single dad papa bear.
A broken beast who’s plodding away from his past, ripping up everything in his path.
But I’ve gotten so attached to the kids.
And so addicted to our sunny, sexy mornings together.
Ugh.
I glance at my iPad on the desk.
Why mope when I could be channeling this pain?
Sophie still needs shoes.
The soft pink skin I laid over a template of her orthopedic shoes doesn’t seem half-bad now that I’m giving it a second look.
Candy cloud, I call it.
The airy textures highlight the natural bulkiness of her shoes rather than hiding it.
When you can’t change what’s etched in stone, sometimes the only thing you can do is own it.
That’s the idea here.
No shame.
I want her to own this fragile part of herself she’s spent years trying to hide.
Kids suck when they’re mean. There’s a special place in hell for bullies.
But she’s such a happy, shy girl, and I want her to shine without judgment. I want her to see what I do when I look at her, and what her dad must’ve always noticed since the day she was born.
Hopefully, this redesign will help.
A statement, not a megaphone.
With a little more tweaking, I can send the design off to a supplier who can make a custom model. Then if it looks good, I’ll ship the finished product to them at home.
My heart hurts again when I remember I’ll never get to see her reaction—if she loves them at all.
Once this is over, we’ll have gone our separate ways.
My phone buzzes loudly beside me.
Hattie.
She’s probably wondering why I haven’t been texting her constant updates.
“Okay,” she says the second I answer. “I know you’re busy canoodling, but I need to know the situation.”
“Canoodling? Who says that?” I laugh despite myself, putting my stylus down and leaning back in the chair.
“Me. I say that. And you’re not using it to avoid the question.”
“What question, Hat-girl?”
“Are you canoodling?”
Kane’s voice floats through the open window.
“Nope,” I admit after a second. “We’re not even on the same floor of the house right now.”
“Oh. Crap,” she says. “Do you want to talk?”
“Would you let me not talk about it?” I get up and flop down on the bed.
“I’d tell you that I love you and respect your privacy and that you have every right not to talk to me about it,” she says reasonably. “But then I would ignore you for three days straight while eating Ben and Jerry’s.”
“Cookie dough?”
“Obviously. Only the best in this house. Now spill! What happened with that creepy stalker dude? And what’s going on with Hunky McHunkster?”
“Please never call him that again,” I say.
“Only if you talk. How can I be your moral support if you won’t let me?”
I chew my lip, deciding not to tell her too much about the stalker situation.
She’ll just worry, and then she’ll probably tell Ethan.
Then he’ll show up here and make a scene. Nobody needs my brother dropping in with his worries and adding to the mess.
I also don’t need my brother sending Holden to turn this place into a fortress or drag me home. I’m not sure the fabric of the universe can handle two tight-lipped strongman egos in the same room.
“We reported the guy I saw to the police. No big deal,” I say. “And Kane, he’s…”
“Margot, did you sleep together?”
My breath stops.
“How did you know?”
“I knew it!” she crows. “You just seemed like you really liked him. I figured you wouldn’t hold back. I mean, I get it. I looked him up, remember?”
“Did you Google him again today?”
“Not since we last spoke. Why?”
“We have a problem,” I say slowly. “News leaked that he’s here with me, and now our names are linked.”
“Linked like dating linked?”
“Yeah. But also, now he’s here and everyone’s all worked up about it. He thinks he’s ruined our time together and potentially dragged me through the mud.”
“Huh? Does he know you’re a Blackthorn?” she asks carefully.
“Yes. And I’ve told him that I’ve been through the rumor mill and walked away alive. But he—”
“He still feels guilty?”
“Right.” I pull the duvet over me miserably. “Things got stressful. He basically said we’re a giant mistake. Point-blank to my face.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, ouch.”
“Maybe he was just upset?”
I scowl at the ceiling.
“Maybe. I mean, that’s possible. He popped off because he was pissed and he didn’t mean it. But he said it, Hattie. Sometimes, people are more honest when they’re mad.”
“Oh, God.”
“It shouldn’t bother me so much. I don’t even know him that well. Not enough to get worked up over this.”
“Mm, okay. There’s no time limit on feelings. Are you sure about that? How well do you know him?”
Definitely well.
Despite our short time together, I know him like the back of my hand.
I know he’s a generous handyman. A selfless grouch. A very conflicted ego.
I know he can cook like a stove god, he has a fraught relationship with his ex, and he’s a top ten finalist for father of the year.
I know he handles his son’s overactive imagination gracefully and fusses over his little girl fitting in.
I know he came here because he wanted to heal them. He wanted a badly needed mental break from his family taking too many kicks to the gut.
He wanted shelter.
And I know that even though this thing with us is temporary, even though he tries not to care too much, he’ll shelter me too.
But still—still, I want to lie.
I want to tell Hattie I barely know him because that means he barely knows me, and somehow that would make this emotional derangement over him less embarrassing.
Only, that’s so brutally honest the lie stalls in my lungs.
“What am I supposed to do?” I whisper. “He doesn’t open up. He’s kinda stuck on his ex, I think, and he won’t give his heart a chance.”
Hattie purrs her sympathy.
“Oh, that’s a tough one. I dunno, maybe the only thing you can do is put some distance between you? Let him work it out. Give him space. You can’t do much else.”
Wise, unwanted words.
“Yeah,” I say once I’ve gotten my voice back. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Will you be okay, though? Do you need me to fly up there?”
“No!” I clear my throat, catching myself. “No, it’s fine. I’m not sure I’ll stick around much longer anyway. You know me. I’m always okay.”
“You always pretend you’re okay,” she says seriously. “Just call me if you need me, m’kay? Anytime. I’ll always pick up for you.”
“I love you.”
“Love you more.” She blows a kiss through the line and I disconnect, fighting the lump in my throat. My eyes sting.
Space, space.
Oh my God, just give him space.
Exactly what I was afraid she’d say.
You can’t do much else.
I know.
Just like I’m painfully aware I’ve fallen into a self-baited trap, trying to fix a man who has to fix himself.
But right now, space feels like total isolation.
It’s bigger and colder than the gulf between stars.