Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
“Arrr, I’m ready, Captain Dad!”
“Keep it straight, little matey. Remember what I told you about where to look with that thing?”
She rolls her eyes, mouthing, “I know.”
Just like I know I’m going to have my hands full with her in a few years, especially if she turns out a fraction as spoiled as Margot Blackthorn.
Stop thinking about her, idiot.
“Okay,” I tell them. “Let’s get the boat into the water.”
It’s heaven on the lake.
The kids turn into dynamos, both of them talking my ear off about the scenery and pointing out damn near every bird nestled in the trees. When a young moose bolts into the woods after taking a drink, it takes half an hour to calm them down.
Sophie spends her time after that staring at the opposite shore with her telescope, moose hunting, while Dan helps me paddle.
At least I can put one of them to work to help burn off some energy.
By the time we return to the house and pull up the canoe, they’re exhausted and damp from getting splashed on the way back up onto the dock. I send them upstairs to change as I get started on lunch.
Thankfully, the kitchen’s empty.
The sigh of relief slams to a halt in my lungs when I see the plate in the middle of the counter under a glass cake dome.
Blueberry muffins, courtesy of Miss Blackthorn.
There’s a note beside it, too, written in the pretty, flowing handwriting of someone who went to a private school. Probably the only place on Earth where they still mint kids who care about their cursive.
I pick it up and read.
Breakfast hit the spot and I thought I’d return the favor. Help yourselves!
Fucking great.
Like Sophie needs another excuse to fangirl over Margot Blackthorn.
She only mentioned her about a dozen times out on the water.
No surprise when Margot’s pretty, shoe-obsessed, and visually successful.
Everything I worry about my little girl trying to idolize. I grew up comfortable, not stupidly rich, and there are dangers to spoiling her too much.
I don’t want blue-blooded young women with Instagram model looks setting her standards.
Then again, doesn’t every kid need a positive role model?
Someone who isn’t her mom.
However much Margot annoys me, she let us stay. Plus, she has a profession that isn’t modeling in obscure locations with a string of revolving boyfriends.
Fuck.
I don’t dislike her, necessarily.
Maybe my cave bear instinct just comes out because I don’t want more trouble. We’ve had our limit.
“Are those muffins? Score!” Predictably, Dan’s the first one back in the kitchen. His hair is still damp from his shower, sticking up in all directions like a human cactus, and there’s a redness in his cheeks I haven’t seen in a while.
“Just one before lunch,” I warn as he rips the glass cover off. “If you’re still hungry, you can have another one after we eat.”
Sophie gasps as she clatters into the kitchen, stumbling against the counter in her excitement. The ortho shoes aren’t always great for a kid’s balance, either.
She flushes, but her beady little eyes are fixed on the muffin stack.
“Margot made these?” she asks.
It seems obvious.
Yet I still have to pinch my jaw to bite back my irritation.
After our morning on the lake, it’s a godsend to two hungry kids, and even I have to agree it’s homey.
Damnably so.
The room still smells like a bakery, all sugar and berries and batter.
“See? I told you she was cool,” Sophie says, taking an enormous bite. Her eyes roll back in her head. “Yum! Her baking game’s on point too, Dad. Try it.”
“Yeah, she could teach you a thing or two,” Dan tells me, smacking his lips.
I snort loudly, snagging one on my way to the fridge.
We’ll just see about that.
“Keep talking like that, Bud, and you’ll be making us lunch.”
Dan’s eyes bulge and he shakes his head.
“Okay, okay! But why not just have the muffins instead?”
“Absolutely not. You need nutrition. When you’re older, you’ll appreciate your old man caring about your macros and glucose levels.”
I bite into the muffin, expecting to be overwhelmed, but—
Shit.
A blueberry cake rainbow floods my mouth.
I’m not sure I’ve had anything baked this good in ages. That includes the best places back home, and even the times when I’d pop into the Sugar Bowl on trips to Kansas City in my younger days. I think the old lady who owned the place then did black magic with a mixing bowl.
Unfortunately, this muffin tastes too close for comfort.
And now I have to add outrageously good baker to Margot Blackthorn’s mile-long list of red flags.
I’m just glad she isn’t here to see her stupid muffin make my eyes roll.
And she doesn’t butt in to disturb us as I throw together chicken salad on whole wheat bread for lunch with heaping bowls of those fresh blueberries as sides.
The muffin offering doesn’t help Sophie’s budding obsession with her new friend. I count fifteen separate mentions of Margot in the twenty minutes it takes to eat lunch together.