Chapter 4 #2
We can be professional and try to manage the shit hand we’ve been dealt.
If we’re lucky, we can both come out ahead.
And it seems like she’s cleared half her plate before I’ve had three bites.
Her eyes do that fluttery thing again with every mouthful, and she’s not moving like the walking dead anymore.
All I see—all I try like hell to avoid looking at—is a bright-eyed young woman who tries to chase my mind into the gutter for the next ten minutes.
I’d say this breakfast was a mistake, if only she didn’t enjoy it so much. It’s not her fault I can’t get my mind back on a purer wavelength, either.
Again, what the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I stuff my mouth with my eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, the works. Satisfying, but it’s not the medicine I need.
Five-star food doesn’t satisfy the raging, ridiculous hard-on pulling at my shorts.
The second I’m done eating, I need an excuse to throw myself under an ice-cold shower.
“I don’t remember you cooking much when Gramps was around,” she says after she’s slayed her inner hangry.
“Hardly got a chance. He’d insist on taking the helm when the chef wasn’t around. I still dream about his lobster bakes on the beach.”
“Oh yeah! Haven’t had any seafood that good in years. Nothing in Boston comes close. If you added some shredded lobster to these, I think I’d die happy.” She shrugs, smiling and piling more eggs on her toast.
Noted.
The girl’s got curves, but she’s lean enough. Looks like she’d be no stranger to the runway with that aristocratic Blackthorn bone structure that seems to run in the family and legs for days.
I’m stunned to see how much she puts away. I thought I’d piled her plate too high.
“I’ll make you a sunrise person yet,” I say.
“If every day starts off like this… maybe.” She grins and her eyes shift from purple to a clear, shattering blue. “Let me guess. You’re still a big gym freak, too? I remember when we’d catch you doing push-ups sometimes.”
She would remember that.
The one time I let her and Margot stand on my back, they nearly cracked my spine dancing until I threw them off.
“Had to make sure I got in my workouts with a full schedule. I’m not a big gym rat these days. A daily run does me good, plus a little bench-pressing at home.” I pause, then give in. “I’ve already had my run. Might find a few minutes for weights this afternoon.”
“I knew it. Never change.” Her laugh echoes through the large kitchen, surprisingly carefree considering what’s sitting below us in its vault two floors down like a ticking time bomb. “You’re just that type.”
“What type?” I raise an eyebrow.
“You know what, never mind. Let’s not ruin the truce.” She eyes me suspiciously, her smile melting. “Unless, of course, you’re buttering me up so you can hit me in the face with some bad news. I don’t need more of that.”
“No one does. I’m feeding you, Miss Blackthorn. No ulterior motive.”
“Okay, cool.” She finishes, glugs down her coffee, and pushes her plate away. “I need a second cup. Then we’ll figure out the rest of this mess.”
“Let me top you off.” We stand up together. It’s not my kitchen, but I’ve spent more time here than she has.
For a moment, she hesitates and accidentally presses against me with her shoulder. Her body heat burns into mine.
Below, something softer. Her breast.
We both tense like we’ve been hit with fifty thousand volts.
“Sure,” she whispers, stumbling back. I hear her chair scrape even though I don’t look around, focusing on my task of making the coffee. “Milk. Sugar. Plenty of both if you want to keep me sweet.”
I snort. “What happens if you get it black?”
“You don’t wanna know.” Her eyes flash with mischief. They’re not helping that annoying bulge in my shorts. “I know you don’t want to get on my bad side, Mr. Verity. Not when you’ve gone through all this effort with breakfast like a total gentleman.”
“Sure,” I mutter, pouring a fresh shot of espresso through the machine.
We will get through this. One painful conversation and teasing smirk at a time.
Coffee also helps shore up sanity.
“Thanks,” she says when I pass it back after fixing her a latte. She wraps her hands around the mug, revealing soft-violet painted nails slightly chewed at the edges. “So…”
I join her back at the island after making my own quick Americano.
“So, we need a plan.”
She half smiles. “Obviously. And you must have something in mind?”
“Not quite. I don’t know a single damn thing about art.
Don’t know what the right decision for a piece of this caliber is.
” Though I hope to God it involves selling the thing ASAP.
“Of course, I’m willing to help you figure that out.
The sooner it’s out of our hands, the sooner we can get back to our regularly scheduled lives. ”
“For sure. I’d prefer fast.” She rubs her temples, smoothing the last bit of sleep the coffee can’t chase away.
“Look, I know this is a big deal for you. This inheritance, the task he left you. I thought what he threw on your cousins’ plates was crazy enough. I wasn’t involved with those cases, though. Small relief.”
“I’ll say. I didn’t realize—it’s priceless, Holden,” she whispers sharply. “I’m not sure how I’ll even get it appraised.”
“You’ll walk away comfortable.” I nod.
“If it’s real, yes. But remember, there have been about a couple dozen forgeries over the years.” She pauses. “I mean, I’ll be good for a while if it isn’t, too. The trust he left me was really generous all on its own.”
“That’s our first step. Figure out if this treasure’s worth chasing at all. Once we know that, we’ll find the right buyer.” I shoot her another glance. “If you want to sell.”
If not, what else?
Where does this wild-ass goose chase end?
I’m ready to help her lug it to the ends of the Earth, if necessary. Whatever and wherever it takes to make it someone else’s problem so I can get paid.
Only, if she decides to keep it, what does that mean for me?
Leonidas’ terms didn’t specify a hard end date. Just an open-ended commitment as long as she’s sorting this out.
Cleo takes a sip of coffee and sighs. “That’s better. I swear, sometimes I think I should have a caffeine drip.”
“You’re too young to be so tired,” I say.
Her eyes are heavy when she looks up. My mouth goes dry.
“I’m not a kid. My muse doesn’t work nine to five, and traveling around for art shows when you’re juggling cheap flights can be rough,” she says. “I’ve been drinking coffee for like ten years too.”
“Too long. You’re what, twenty-one now?”
“Twenty-three. Just had my birthday a couple weeks ago,” she admits. “But I’ve also been drinking wine for about eight years. Dad didn’t guard his stash at home half as well as you.”
My fingers tighten on my mug.
No, Gordon Blackthorn, professional fuckup extraordinaire, wouldn’t. Just thinking his name leaves a bad taste in my mouth, knowing how much he stressed Leonidas out.
Same for his estranged daughter, Elvira.
It’s a bittersweet reality that the old man built his twilight years around his grandkids for good reason.
I shake my head slowly, keeping my lips sealed so I don’t piss her off. No need to attack the black sheep openly on Leonidas’ behalf.
What’s done is done and it wasn’t my life.
She laughs a little before we lapse back into silence.
Only now, it’s not as tense or unpleasant.
It’s not like we don’t have enough thoughts to fall back on. I’m sure her brain has birds in it, just like mine, scattering at a hundred miles per hour.
“Honestly, it’s a little overwhelming,” she says after a second, picking at the edge of her mug. “Being left something this important.”
“I get it. You didn’t think he’d leave you a lost treasure.”
“I didn’t even know it existed.” She chews her bottom lip. “And I mean, you know my dad.”
“I’ve heard about him, yes,” I say cautiously, stifling the contempt that rubbed off on me.
The way she reacted last night tells me it’s a sore subject. She’s a Blackthorn, after all.
So it’s probably not a good idea to press her, much less tell her I know how shitty and reckless Gordon can be.
Leonidas always had so much regret whenever he’d bring up his nephew. How Gordon could’ve been great if he’d only learned patience, how to handle rejection, and put a damn lid on the bottle. If he could’ve grown up without blowing himself to pieces.
That’s part of the creative journey. Knowing how to take an arrow to the ribs, break it off, and stagger forward, stronger than ever, rather than bleeding out.
Gordon couldn’t do that.
He thought the Blackthorn name was synonymous with genius. He expected his connections to do the heavy lifting.
When the world told him otherwise—when it didn’t fall to its knees worshipping his bland creations—he turned bitter.
Drugs in his younger years. Gambling and get-rich-quick schemes. The bottle ramped up later, from what I know, and that’s what keeps him prisoner.
His art never took off. His addictions did.
When Leonidas figured out he was funding bad habits and a rotten attitude. When the man he once loved like a son started lying to his face, he cut him off cold.
Another reason I don’t like the thought of Cleo drinking at all.
Nothing wrong with a glass of wine or two, but sometimes that reckless itch lives in the genes. It’s far too easy to ride that slippery slope into hell.
Deathly hard to claw your way out.
Throw in Gordon’s appalling business sense, and you have a world-class failson. And from what I know, a shitty father, too.
Whenever I worry about falling short with Kit, I remember how bad it can be.
At least I care.
At least I’m in her life, building her dreams on my sweat. My only bad days are the ones where she doesn’t smile.
I never got the impression Gordon cared what his daughter did. He was probably relieved when the old man would take her off his back for the summer or a long spring break.
“You worked for PopPop for so long, so I don’t need to tell you,” Cleo says flatly. “You know about it. All the ugly secrets, I’m sure. Dad’s just mad I had a line in the will and he didn’t. He’ll come around asking any day now. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. You don’t owe him,” I growl before I can catch myself. “Sorry. It’s your business, Miss Blackthorn, and your grandfather meant it to stay that way. I’m sure you’ll tell your old man whatever you think he should know.”
Ideally, not a damn word more.
“I wish it was that easy. I’ll—” She breaks off, frowning, staring into her mug. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just… I never expected to inherit so much. I know I shouldn’t, but I feel a little guilty, knowing they never got along. Gramps didn’t have much luck with reconciling later in life.”
“He didn’t,” I say darkly. “And that’s not your fault. You’re not your father. You’re not responsible for the relationships Leonidas wanted, either. His life’s done, mistakes and all. Yours is still being written.”
“I guess you’re right.” She eyes me slowly. “But you’ll help me? Even with the appraisal stuff?”
“Just try and get rid of me, woman. You’ll need a crowbar and a lot more habaneros ruining my food this time,” I tell her.
She smiles.
I think she picks up what I’m putting down. The duration of this arrangement is in her hands.
The old man’s letter was crystal clear about my commitment.
“Like you say, the first thing we need to do is figure out whether it’s worth anything. If it’s a fake, then you’re off the hook.”
Shit, I hadn’t thought of that.
Hell, if it is a forgery, it’s not like the value crashes to zero, though. I’m no jeweler, but I’d be surprised if all the rocks and gold on that thing are fake. Leonidas would’ve known that years ago and junked it.
Also, I might be a coldhearted workhorse, but I don’t want to see her disappointed if her grand treasure becomes fool’s gold.
“Should be easy enough to get started,” I say. “Leonidas didn’t just leave me instructions. He also left a list of dealers, experts, and other contacts in the art world. We’ll start there. Someone will have the expertise we need.”
Her smile widens with very adult determination.
“Awesome. Let’s go find this egg a worthy nest to call home.”