Chapter 4
BURIED TREASURE (HOLDEN)
Idon’t bother staying up late.
After my one-way screaming match with a girl who still leaves me seeing red, I head to the room that’s always been mine when I’ve done overnight stints in this house.
Like everything else here, it’s been stripped down, just barely more bare and utilitarian than I kept it when Leonidas was alive.
Why the fuck did I take her bait?
I should’ve handled it better, knowing she’d be packing venom.
Yes, she’s infernal, but she’s still a young woman.
The unexpected inheritance bomb the old man dropped has left us both shocked. To be fair, I’m hardly the only one stuck in the past.
I had my reasons for stopping her from acting out like the young, entitled punk she was.
I don’t regret welding the wine cellar shut.
I’m not sorry I confiscated the keys to her car when she wanted to sneak out with friends past curfew.
I wonder if she ever appreciated me for standing outside her door, every time the old man insisted she put in a few hours with homework or practicing her art.
No, she’s not her old man.
Gordon Blackthorn’s bullshit was everything Leonidas hoped to save her from.
Grumbling, I unfold the crumpled letter Leonidas left me. The wise old goat was a brilliant motivator.
He knew leaving behind a two-and-a-half-million-dollar severance pot of gold at the end of this shit rainbow would be plenty to keep me on for one more job.
Enough to make me go through hell.
Money like that can get Kit through college without breaking a sweat. It can fund a home nurse for my parents—a good one—plus anything else they might need. If there’s anything left over, it might be real security. Not scrambling after my retirement on a fraction of my old pay.
Damn. I guess I can’t begrudge a miracle when it comes with strings attached.
That familiar burn flaring in my knees agrees.
I flex my legs, wincing.
Probably the stress.
That and getting older.
They only started acting up a couple years ago, this gnawing sensation that’s getting harder to ignore by the month. Cortisone shots might calm it for a while, but my doc warned me that’s not a permanent fix.
A cruel reminder that I can’t carry on in the private security game forever. There’s a reason most guys with my career path age out by forty-five.
I won’t even get that.
And if I inherit my mother’s arthritis—shit. What will I be able to do after this?
“Fine,” I whisper to the empty room, old routine taking over and doing a sweep of the doors and windows. I’ve already done a clean sweep of the house. “I’ll do it for you, Leonidas. One last rodeo with the little queen.”
I don’t owe him any favors, even if he was a good boss.
I’m in it for the money, and I’m not sorry. Especially when the alternative is too fucking nasty to contemplate.
I’ll execute, do my job, and get the hell out the second after Cleo Blackthorn unloads her bejeweled bomb.
I’m a creature of habit.
Like every day, I rise just as the first sliver of sunlight glints on the horizon, change into my workout clothes, and head out for a run.
I only skip the morning ritual when my knees scream bloody murder.
Not today, they’ve recovered.
There’s insight in the early silence.
Soft whispers in the fresh Maine breeze when it’s just me, the pavement, and enough pounding effort to make my own heartbeat drown out everything else.
I live for this shit.
When you’re a single dad with a frantic schedule, alone time is God time. And from the day Charli dragged herself back into my life, I learned I need to hold on to that.
Fate has a warped, sick sense of humor. No question.
You have to be a little selfish, a lot grounded. You have to carve out space to think, and to be the best you can possibly be for your little girl.
Once my legs feel like stilts on fire, I drag myself back inside and head to the kitchen to start prepping breakfast.
Might as well try to smooth things over. If raising Kit has taught me anything, food’s a great start.
Cleo shuffles into the kitchen just as the golden sun slashes through the windows, her hair mussed, still in her pajamas.
A soft, loose pajama top and damnably tight leggings. Her ass is a peach and the long line of her legs blind me before I remember to look away.
Fuck, man.
I’m surprised she didn’t sleep in. I remember the old man would practically have to bang pots when she was young.
What’s she doing strolling in here like this? I wonder if she expected me, but the girl doesn’t look startled.
She yawns as she shuffles past me, apron around my waist, cooking eggs.
“You cook?” she says faintly.
“Yeah. Hungry?”
“It’s ass o’clock, but yeah. I couldn’t go back to sleep.”
I snort and stir the eggs. That’s the trick, to never stop stirring, plus a splash of cream.
“I’ll have bacon up in a minute. You still eat meat, right?”
“Yeah, I—” She swipes a hand through her hair, and it falls back over her face, catching on her long eyelashes. “Holy shit, Holden. How long have you been awake?”
“Little over an hour.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re still a morning person.”
“No way around it, Nile.” I allow myself a small smile. “Kit hates me for it too, so you’re not alone. She’ll be one of those teens who sleeps in forever, I’m sure.”
“Like me, you mean.” Shyly, she tucks a strand of that rust-colored hair behind her ear. She’s not wearing any makeup today, but that bleached stripe in her hair makes her glow like lightning.
She may be Nile, but she’s not little Cleo anymore.
She’s a grown woman with hellishly good looks attached to a smart mouth.
I still remember the first time she dyed her hair years ago. That was the summer I took her keys away so she couldn’t get into trouble after dark.
When she came waltzing in with violet highlights, Mr. Blackthorn just laughed. I thought he’d be mad, but no.
“Experiment now, girl,” he said warmly. “You’ll never be this young again.”
Better reaction than I’d have if Kit blew in with a bold new look for sure.
“You’re an artist now, so you’ve got a professional excuse for sleeping in, I suppose.” I pull the eggs off the heat and work on the bacon, flipping it over as it fries. “Toast? I do it in the pan and butter it up.”
“God, please. The smell’s helping.” She throws me a look from under her long lashes, her eyes almost purple in the dawn. “I’m grateful. Still disgusted you’re this functional, though, no lie.”
I shake my head.
“You’ll feel human once you’ve eaten and started moving around.” I finish off the toast, buttering it to perfection, then drape my apron over the nearest chair. “I thought we could talk over breakfast. It’s easier when there’s food.”
“Talk?” She gives me a skeptical look.
“We need to. Last night didn’t go down like I wanted, and I regret that. Let’s start over today, Miss Blackthorn, and sort this out.”
“I guess. You’re lucky that bacon smells like heaven.” She inhales sharply.
My lips turn up.
She says it like she hates admitting it.
“Is it possible to cook bacon any other way? Unless you burn it to hell and back,” I say, motioning to her as she stands. “Have a seat. I’ve got this.”
“I’m never up this early. I feel like death.”
She could’ve fooled me.
When she’s standing like this, bathed in soft sunlight, there’s no ignoring the woman she’s become. Her full breasts crowd the loose top she’s wearing, and it’s painfully clear she’s not wearing a bra.
My jaw clenches.
Do not look down, you asshole. Do not.
I do.
I wish like hell I’d had time to change after running. I turn around and shift my shorts, taking my sweet time plating up her portion, hoping to everything holy she doesn’t notice my hard-on.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Her ass must be enchanted. I feel bewitched.
An ugly side effect must be having the cheesiest pickup lines ever lodged in my brain. I’d rather eat a bowl of nails than say this shit out loud, much less keep thinking it.
She drops into the nearest seat at the large marble island and looks at me again. “I wasn’t expecting you to cook. Not in a million years.”
“Didn’t think you were. I’m a free agent. Not a damn robot programmed to carry out orders. I wanted to start this day right for both of us, so I went to work.”
This is an apology.
Hopefully, she accepts.
“I, um… right. I appreciate it.” She sounds like she’s fighting every word. “And I guess I’m sorry, too. For going off on you last night. I’m still a little sensitive with everything here and it’s not okay.”
My turn to be surprised.
“Thanks. We were both processing, I’m sure. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard to figure it all out while you were digesting the news.”
“No. But I get why you did. I’m still kinda reeling.”
“It was a lot to take in. The old man loved his surprises.” I continue plating up. “Also, I like having a plan.”
“If you didn’t, I’d wonder if you were really Holden Verity.” She smiles. I can practically feel her staring at my back. “It must kill you not knowing what we’re going to do, huh? With Gramps, there was always a road map.”
We.
The word makes me uncomfortable, even if it’s true.
Until that damn jeweled egg vanishes, we’re stuck together.
One unit. One mission.
In this to the brink of insanity.
“You’d be surprised. He could change his mind on a whim and zero notice.” Sighing, I push her plate in front of her. “Here’s my peace offering. Enjoy.”
“Accepted.” She digs her fork into the fluffy eggs with a soft noise of contentment. “Mmm, these look tasty!”
“Don’t hold back on my account,” I grunt, grabbing my plate and swinging around the island into the seat next to her.
“No, I mean it. Apology accepted. This is a lot better than words.” Her eyes flutter shut as she bites into her toast.
I’ll ignore the obscene moan and take that as her own little olive branch.
We’re not becoming friends.
Shit, friends is too much to ask when we can barely tolerate each other. That chemical outburst yesterday proved it.
I let my anger win, and it’s fair to say she’s working through plenty of crap, too.
Still, we can cope.