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)
I used to hate it, the lack of real softness. Almost like she was terrified of being overwhelmed if she offered us any real love.
Now, I know more about her and the reasons she burned her bridge with Gramps. The hard fact that Ethan isn’t Dad’s child and I am, so yeah, it makes a little more sense.
She’s still broken and hurting from Gramps thinking Dad wasn’t good enough to marry into the Blackthorn family.
She’s also arranged her life in a way that doesn’t revolve around children.
Fine, I get it.
But it also fucking sucks for the kids involved.
Not that I’m a kid anymore.
I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’m used to this crap.
“Thanks for the encouragement, Mom. If you can turn the hate machine off long enough to recall anything useful, call me.”
I end the call without a goodbye and roll over, frustration burning my skin until it itches.
I swear I’m going to overdose on secrets here.
Whatever secret Gramps left, plus the whole weird business with the Babins. Were they really the monsters Edith Griffith said?
Lawsuits?
Arson?
Potentially trying to scare me and the poor kids in this house.
Kane hasn’t said anything else about it, but I know he’s on high alert.
Right now, he’s downstairs with them, watching a movie and doing whatever bonding dad stuff you do with kids that age.
He’s also keeping the evening watch. I just know it.
It’s a relief to have him here, but I can’t stop the pang of guilt that tells me if he hadn’t come, the Saints wouldn’t be sharing this mess.
I text Hattie and power up my iPad while I wait for her reply.
I haven’t forgotten my other sad little secret.
After Sophie poured her heart out about her shoes, I started looking up orthopedic shoes and their designs, their function.
Turns out, there’s a lot to learn.
But Sophie’s shoes are the high-support, clunky ones.
Absolute beasts aesthetically.
So, I’ve taken the design and downloaded it as a base image with a little AI-assisted modeling. I’ve just started working on something that should have the same support but might look prettier.
Functional, yes, but feminine.
A stab at a statement piece.
Not something bland that will blend in, but not an outlier that draws mean jokes from immature kids.
It’s not easy.
These shoes don’t go hand in hand with pretty. Not in the delicate, flowery sort of way that’s stylish. Not with bold, worldly I-don’t-care confidence, either.
My phone lights up with Hattie’s reply, and I stop working to check her message.
Hattie: I’m glad you filed a police report! So scary.
Hattie: Also the stuff with your neighbors is insane.
Hattie: But have you kissed him again? Gotta look on the bright side.
I chew my bottom lip as I stare at the screen. She’s still typing.
Hattie: Sooo I *might* have looked him up. Because what else do I have to do with my time when I’m not shelving books? Verdict: GORGEOUS. Seriously, if you don’t hook up with him, I will try.
Margot: Hattie! Remember you’re literally married to my brother.
Hattie: Kidding! But fr it’s your moral obligation to hook up with him before some other baddie does.
Hattie: But how are things with you guys? Awkward or chill?
I think back over the day.
Yesterday, I was convinced I’d never be able to look him in the eye again.
It turns out being terrified for your life puts things in perspective. When I ran back into the kitchen that night, I wasn’t thinking about the kiss apocalypse much.
Or every wicked thing it means.
Like how his little boy found out and his little girl wants us to date.
Ugh.
I still haven’t told him that part.
It might look like I’m asking for a date, but no, that’s just my annoying subconscious.
I am self-aware.
And I’m not going to get emotionally tied up with anyone right now.
No more hookups.
No more drama.
Done.
If I have to bring in an army of battery-operated boyfriends to tide me over, hey, whatever.
A cool night breeze drifts in through the window. I inhale it slowly.
A little fresh air always helps me think.
I love the pine-scented coolness here so much I’m not worried about bringing a chill into the room. Hattie, who’s all cozy blankets, thinks I’m weird.
Not that awkward, I type back. We had a nice day in town with the kids. Had some lobster, ate ice cream, rode some horses. Nothing crazy.
Hattie: Yet. Just wait until you ride him.
I drop my phone, press my face into my hands, and groan.
She’s so bad.
Before I can tell her this is real life and not another spicy book, a noise catches my attention from the open window.
My heart ticks in my throat.
The low hum of a motor.
A splashing sound?
I stick my head out and look down, scanning the lawn until—
My breath catches when I see him.
Kane.
Huge and godlike, bathed in the low light around the old hot tub.
He just can’t sit still. He must’ve fixed the pump and gotten the whole thing working.