Chapter 1 #2
He’d just chuckle when I made little spills and tell me he’d clean it up later.
While I can’t say he’s the only reason I chose art, after Dad’s grim example, I doubt I would’ve had the courage to move forward if it wasn’t for PopPop’s encouragement.
I blink away the memory as a smart-dressed woman stands behind his old desk and holds out her hand in greeting.
“Miss Cleopatra Blackthorn,” she says with a nod. “So good to meet you. We spoke on the phone.”
The infamous Miss Jackie Wilkes. She looks like she sounded, all focused intelligence and business. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she’s wearing subtle makeup that enhances the natural brown beauty of her face.
A smart blouse that looks designer grade. Nails perfectly manicured. An arrow of a woman, dangerously professional.
“Cleo,” I correct. “Nice to meet you, finally.”
She smiles, friendly and brisk.
If I ever wound up arrested, I could do a lot worse than her. I’m not sure she’s that type of lawyer, though.
Something about her makes me feel like she’s never been in a situation she’s not in control of.
“Please, sit.” She gestures to the old seat I used to occupy with PopPop. The memory briefly tightens in my throat, but I smile past it. “I appreciate you coming all this way,” she adds.
“Oh, it’s fine. Had to happen, I guess. You said my inheritance was released, so of course I’m curious.”
“Yes. I truly regret the red tape and delays.” She takes her seat again, where PopPop used to sit, leaning back in the leather chair.
There’s something unspeakably efficient about the way she moves. If I sketched her, she could only be clean, formidable lines.
Now I feel really underdressed for today.
We just went from whispering at ghosts to job interview vibes in sixty seconds flat.
Still, life’s too short to be anything but myself.
Wilkes opens a folder and pulls out several papers clipped together. The good paper, heavy and thick, not quite white. Almost compulsively, I reach out to brush my fingertips against it.
“This is Mr. Blackthorn’s will,” she says. “Again, I apologize for the delay. There’s been some… other drama in the family inheritance, as you may know. We also had to ensure all the pieces were in place legally to distribute your portion.”
My portion? I wrinkle my nose.
That makes it sound like I’m being served a slice of prime rib rather than table scraps. But that doesn’t make sense.
I’m an adopted granddaughter. Technically, Leonidas’ great niece by blood, even if he never treated me like anything less than his beloved munchkin, no different from Ethan and Margot.
Wilkes smiles at me.
“Um, okay. I didn’t think I was getting very much,” I say. Might as well be upfront about that. “What ‘portion’ are we talking about?”
“Three items. Simple enough on the surface, with one large caveat.” She opens the will and spins it to face me, pointing out the pertinent points in the sea of legalese with her pen. I blink at the maze of words. “First, you have a trust worth three hundred thousand dollars.”
Heart spasm.
“Three hundred—holy crap. You’re kidding, right?”
She gives me a tight-lipped smile.
“I’m pleased to say I’m not. There are a few stipulations. The legal protections mean you can only withdraw this money for housing or living expenses until you turn thirty. Nothing else.”
Oof.
Nothing else like bailing Dad out, she means.
PopPop really did think of everything.
I’m glad Dad can’t pressure me for a “loan” into paying off his debts, or whatever get-rich-quick scheme he turns to next.
Almost a relief.
Three hundred thousand could go a long way to helping me land a decent place, when the time comes. And all the time it’ll stay in the trust, safely invested and growing, if I’m reading this right.
A seriously generous gift. But what else?
I nod at the lawyer.
She turns a page and points to the next pertinent part. “Here’s the desk we’re sitting at, plus a stipend for transporting it back to Boston.”
Oh.
My shoulders sag in relief. No wonder the library hasn’t changed much. This ginormous desk was waiting for me to bring it home.
I run my hand along the cool wooden surface, thanking the stars that PopPop left a little extra for moving it. There’s no way I could afford to get this monstrosity back home by myself, a couple hours away.
Jeez, I might have to relocate sooner or later.
It won’t fit easily into my shoebox apartment. It’s big, but maybe if I measure everything and shove it beside the window in the living room… I could give it a temporary home.
I’ll use it for sketching. Or planning. Or just daydreaming. A little bit of PopPop, always with me.
“Very kind of him. Thank you,” I whisper.
“Now, the grand finale,” Miss Wilkes says. “The most prized piece in his sizable art collection.”
“Art?” As far as I recall, there’s probably nothing that valuable left in the house. Most of the art should’ve been dealt with months ago.
“His other pieces were auctioned off last year,” Jackie confirms. “The final batch is set for private sale soon, but he was adamant he doesn’t want that for this special piece.
” She stands again, tucking the paperwork back into her folder.
“It’s better if I show you. Just as soon as the rest of our party arrives. ”
The rest of our party? What party?
This keeps getting weirder.
“Who’s coming?” I ask, but before Wilkes can answer, there’s a heavy rapping at the door.
“Come in!” she calls.
The door opens.
A man’s enormous silhouette fills the doorway, a human wall built for punishment.
Jet-black hair.
Deep-brown eyes set in an angular, hard face.
Lips that look like they were made for barking orders and spitting people out.
He’s a human golem, over six feet of stone and bad attitude. Unrealistic, unfair, uncompromising perfection.
No, unrealistic physical perfection.
I remember him on sight. Then I remember how deeply flawed the personality is attached to this beast.
Moody McMiserable, in the flesh. The big, hired asshole who put a damper on every fun time here.
I haven’t seen him in years, which was a relief every time. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if Gramps kept him on payroll during my last couple visits.
He may look like Hercules’ older, angrier brother, but his personality is somewhere between dead fish and inanimate rock.
Who knew the ninth circle of hell could be so boring? He definitely crawled out of it just to ruin everything.
Gramps’ head of security.
Holden goddamned Verity.
Holy shit.
I had no clue he was still around. I have even less idea why he’s here now, smirking at me without quirking his lips.
It’s those eyes, brown and amused, like a grizzly bear watching a salmon flopping helplessly.
Right now, that salmon is me.
Every summer I’d visit, he was the glorified babysitter, the keeper I never asked for, appointed to make sure I didn’t get in trouble. I know Ethan hated him too, but I’d like to think I had it worse.
My older cousins called him Holden Hardass for a reason.
Sure, looking back, I can appreciate he was just trying to do the right thing, keeping the grandkids out of trouble. And yes, if I was left to my own devices, I wouldn’t have always made good choices.
At the time, I hated him for it.
He made it clear he thought chasing me was beneath him. Policing a bratty teenage girl was clearly beneath his pay grade, so he made sure I’d sit in my room and never cause any trouble if Gramps wanted me to stay at home.
Obviously, that wasn’t what I wanted.
It’s safe to say we didn’t get along.
I’ll never understand how my grandfather kept him employed for so many years or what he saw in this workhorse besides raw, intimidating muscle. Or why he’s clearly still around now, I guess.
There’s no reality where Holden being here means anything good.
Then comes the next surprise.
A small girl follows him into the room, her head cocked as she looks around, taking in the mansion. She can’t be older than ten, I bet.
She has his dark hair and firm brows. Nice height and a bone structure a lot of folks would kill for.
Some people just win the genetic lottery.
It’s obvious from the similarities between them that this girl in her pink kitty cat shirt and jeans must be his daughter.
Holden’s daughter.
Holy crap.
My brain stutters, probably out loud.
Holden’s scowl deepens, like he can see my brain locking up.
“Sorry we’re running late,” he rumbles. “Kit had to drop off a library book.”
I think my jaw drops. Hits the ground. Probably shatters.
I stare into his craggy, unyielding face.
“You’re a dad?” I blurt. “You?”
This girl isn’t that little, which means she existed when I’d visit as a kid.
How did he never mention her? I mean, not that I ever bothered to ask about his stuffy, boring life.
He folds his arms. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t notice the way his muscles bulge under his clinging sweater, which looks like it’s on the verge of tearing.
“Hello to you too, brat. Surprised?”
Unfortunately.
Because for him to have a daughter, it means some crazy woman had to get past his repulsive accountant-meets-gym-rat personality enough to want to sleep with him.
To bear his child.
To raise his kid.
And then to let him cart her around as his daughter.
Holy flaming crap. I might fall over.
Is he married? Is he a full-blown family guy?
I scan his finger for any sign of a ring, but I don’t see one.
I have so many questions he won’t like, but I can’t say anything with his little girl standing there, staring at me with soft, curious eyes.
Yeah, no. Badmouthing daddy dearest in front of her probably isn’t a good look, as much as I’d love to let my sarcasm machine gun rip.
“Sorry.” I shrug. “I just… I didn’t know.”
His eyes fix on mine, like a storm trapped in amber. “I keep my personal and professional life separate, Miss Blackthorn. Like any decent person should.”
Hello to you, too, asshat.