This Bitter Sweet Temptation (The Blackthorn Inheritance #3)

Chapter 1

HIDDEN TREASURE (CLEO)

As my car skids to a stop at the end of the long, winding driveway, that hole in my chest deepens.

Above me, PopPop’s vacant mansion stares down, the windows blank and empty as an unmarked grave.

Only, I know there’s someone up there today, waiting for me.

The lawyer.

Little comfort. My brain spins through a slideshow of black windows and death and ghosts whispering through legal documents.

Dread and anxiety in full control. But what else is new?

If I had a therapist, I’d fire her.

I sigh until my chest rattles.

It’s been a while since I was here.

A few years, actually.

PopPop died over a year ago, but old summers are fresh in my mind. It seems like just yesterday we were walking the rocky shores or laughing in the kitchen. Then I went off to college, time condensed, and I lost the plot.

Life rolled on without happy sunwashed days and smiles.

Life continued without the man who was so much more than a grandfather.

I fucking hate that he died alone.

Stubborn and brave to the bitter end, he hid his sickness from the whole family. He wanted to go out on his terms, surrounded by no one but dutiful nurses.

Dad says that’s what he got for being such a ‘miserly old bastard.’

Actually, it’s Dad’s fault that I’m the one showing up here today instead of him, collecting an inheritance I barely care about. It’s been delayed for over a year.

Everyone’s been so tight-lipped about it since the old man died, so I can’t imagine it’ll amount to much. A small piece of Gramps’ fortune he was wise enough not to leave to my father, maybe.

I should be so lucky if it’s that bland.

Nothing like the freaking arranged marriage fiasco or the lake house drama my cousins inherited.

I’m not bitter.

Unlike Dad, who hates the fact that he wasn’t given a few more parting freebies.

Gordon Blackthorn wore the black sheep badge proudly.

Bad with money, bad with relationships, meh at raising me, and awful at having his shit together.

Unfortunately, reputations rub off like lint. Too many people think the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, especially after Dad left his nasty mark in the art world.

His sins cover me like a second shadow.

A chill wind sweeps in, too cold for April in Maine. It’s like we’ve skipped back to February, when the air tries to strip your bones clean.

I open the car door and step out gently.

The house glares down like an angry statue.

Honestly, PopPop was smart not to leave Dad a trust or anything. He already gave him enough. He tried.

If that makes me the disloyal daughter, oh well. But Leonidas Blackthorn knew where to invest his money. That’s why he got stinking rich and built a real estate empire up and down the Atlantic coast.

Dad wasn’t a good investment—just an emotional one. I wonder what that makes me.

Why am I here, really?

Why did it take so long?

I can’t believe it’s been years since we last sat across from each other by a roaring fire, always some oversized book clutched in his bony hands. I was only twenty, smack in the middle of my art program.

The same warm house.

The same stories that transcended truth and fiction from his travels.

Same jokes. Same gentle encouragement and grand lessons about life.

Same Gramps, but now he’s gone forever.

My stomach twists.

Grief is weird like that, the way it comes in waves.

One minute, you’re fine and a little misty-eyed about the past. The next, the bear trap slams shut on your heart and you’re doubled over with pain, the depressing finality.

I’m almost glad there wasn’t a funeral.

PopPop didn’t allow it. He knew all of us being there mourning would hurt too much.

But the pain burns my lungs, so acute I have to breathe through clenched teeth.

Ice-cold air runs through me like loss reaching its grubby fingers down my throat, stealing a piece of me.

You have to get used to it, though.

You have to press on with the vicious cycle called life.

My feet feel numb on the pavement. Even the sky scowls down, grey and indifferent.

I pull out my phone and snap a picture.

No matter how crappy I feel right now, maybe later I’ll put this on canvas to decompress. Oils, maybe.

Something messy, tactile, moody.

I’ll call it Gone. Or something more pretentious like Drifting Clouds just to keep people guessing.

Ahead, the house looms closer with every step, a sleeping giant just waiting to swallow me.

PopPop never did like modern. It’s a hulking colonial-style house with a veranda that wraps around the side and its extensive gardens, just dripping New England old money.

By the looks of the green stems pushing through the dirt behind the skeletal brush, someone kept up the landscaping after his death.

I used to play hide and seek out here. There were wind chimes hanging over the porch, and some days I’d hunker down and hide, just listening to their clanging secrets.

The chimes are long gone now.

All the outdoor furniture has disappeared. Old wicker chairs I used to spend hours slowly picking apart—and every time I came back, they’d be repaired again.

He never said anything.

Never told me off, never yelled at Margot for joining in, even though it must’ve been annoying.

I’ll admit I was a brat.

That knife in my belly twists again. More memories.

Better times.

I only have vague memories of the last time I really hung out with Margot and Ethan. They were older than me and past a certain point, we weren’t glued together. Especially when Ethan moved on to bigger and better things and avoided Portland like the plague.

Still, the family meetings were warm. I didn’t have a stable home, but there was always a place where I belonged, in this house, with kin who made me laugh and acknowledged my existence.

It doesn’t feel so warm today.

Stop it. Switch off your nerves.

That’s what I tell myself as I climb the stairs to the front door.

I’m jittery because I don’t belong here anymore. Plus, coming to this house alone without PopPop or my cousins feels wrong on a cosmic level.

Honestly, it feels like this house shouldn’t exist without him.

Dad would’ve loved to get his hands on this place so he could turn around and pocket the money from the sale.

Another dark thought. Another reason why I’m nothing like my father.

With everyone collecting their piece of the estate, I’m the last one standing who gets a sliver of Gramps’ legacy.

I squash that thought as I rap on the door. My knuckles sting.

The angry, confused knot in the pit of my stomach gnarls tighter.

I don’t know why coming here feels so momentous. Maybe because I don’t get why we couldn’t just have some quick, painless meeting at a clinical office in town. The lawyer must have one, right?

Then the front door swings open and a balding, smiling man gestures me inside.

“Miss Blackthorn? Come on in,” he says.

All my visions of ghosts disappear in his image. He’s wearing chinos and polished shoes so shiny I can see my face in them.

PopPop would approve. He liked men who were well put together and who projected themselves well.

Man, I feel underdressed in my simple black blouse and skirt. I should’ve shotgunned some makeup on, I guess, since I still wound up dressing for a funeral today. At least I threw on some moisturizer.

“Hi.” I clear my throat and find my voice. “Thank you so much, Mr. —”

“Mr. Roan. I’m taking care of the place until the estate goes on the market. But you can call me Dave.”

“Dave,” I repeat. “Call me Cleo.”

I step inside.

“Nasty weather today. I really thought we were done with winter,” he says politely, shutting the massive door to block the chill. “I think it’s going to rain.”

“Perfect for today,” I joke.

It falls flat.

“Well, I turned up the heat for you,” he says, leading me through the house, so familiar and alien as hell.

So many personal touches missing now. There’s some furniture left, but not a ton. Not enough to be a home. I hope the lion’s share went to the rest of the family.

My heart aches at the empty spaces where chairs and shelves once sat.

Dad would say it’s practical to sell all the stuff. Especially if you don’t have room for it in your life—and who has room for ginormous old-world furnishings?

No normal person can take on soaring gold-framed paintings that look museum-worthy or furniture imported from Europe that’s over a hundred years old. PopPop was a collector of things, and his haul of treasures grew with his age.

Now, it’s just weird seeing the place emptied out.

Not even ghosts in the walls.

“Miss Wilkes is ready for you in the library,” Dave says.

My heart does a little flip.

The library.

It was always my favorite room here. When I used to play hide and seek with Ethan and Margot, I’d usually pick the library.

It got to the point where they always knew where to look, right behind the huge potted ferns or stacks of old books that seemed to come and go from storage to shelves with the seasons.

Just walking in feels like stepping back in time.

The old book smell is a hug for the senses.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves, a fireplace, and big, squishy chairs around a long table that could’ve had a double life at King Arthur’s court. And then, of course, PopPop’s desk in the corner.

Dave turns a corner and gestures me through an empty door.

I smile at him and hold my breath, hoping to walk back into my childhood.

Still the same place, thank God.

The books have some gaps, but the shelves are still there. The furniture hasn’t moved. There’s a huge roaring fire in the hearth, and when I blink, I see my childhood self playing with dolls in the balmy glow.

When I got older, PopPop used to read to me by the fire. And whenever he was working on high-stakes real estate deals that felt too vast to understand, he’d sit me down next to his huge desk, encouraging me to draw and paint while he worked.

I remember feeling the poster paints on my fingers as I went to work, translating images from my head to paper and later to canvas.