Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Even the dry nonfiction texts about fishing and bird watching have their charm. They’ve been read so many times their bindings are loose.
She probably would’ve found a way to fix them, knowing the soft spot she has for old words.
‘Pre-loved books,’ she calls them.
But it’s not just the books she’d adore.
She’d have loved the quiet, too. The fireflies coming out at night to dance like tiny stars.
They’re rarer now than I remember back when I was a kid, but that’s probably the same story everywhere, not just Maine.
And she would’ve laughed at the way I can never get Ares to make room for me in bed, the old dog stubbornly occupying my spot every time I’m not in it.
She had the magic touch. That lazy pile of bones would always move for her.
Pathetic.
My hand tightens around the glass. I resist the urge to hurl it into the fireplace.
I’m not used to missing anyone like this.
When Gramps died, it was a blow, but it was also natural.
And after his betrayal, it can’t compare to the way I miss her.
It’s a different kind of ache, chewing its way under my skin, and I can’t dig it out.
There’s so much of her imprinted on my life, even though she’s only been part of it for a few months.
Still, breaking it off was the right move.
I couldn’t stand to hurt her as I turned into a berserker, smashing everything I thought I knew like an angry bull.
Hattie Sage doesn’t fit my ruined world.
Not the one where I’m done being some weird, emotional pawn of Gramps.
She doesn’t need to hang around for the wreckage.
No one deserves that.
We both need to get the hell on with our lives, and I need time alone.
Time to figure out my life and what the hell I want to do with it now that everything I thought I knew is a lie.
Keeping Hattie around would only be a distraction.
A bitter reminder of Leonidas Blackthorn’s delusions.
Sighing, I drag another hand through my hair and move over to the small desk.
My laptop is still open from the last time I tried to cobble together some sort of viable business plan.
I have ideas, but it’s refining them that’s the hard part, figuring out which ones might have a real place in the market.
I have tabs of spreadsheets I can’t remember and so many conversations with AI open the bots might as well be talking to each other.
Not a rational way to hash out anything. But you can only mope around getting blasted out of your mind for so long.
I need a fucking future to cut the anchor of the past.
I scan through my options again, the bolder ones that would take me to new places far away from here.
I had an idea for a new platform where people can stream health, cooking, and wellness videos, but it’s not enough to build an entire company around. That would have to be a side project.
What about the high-end rental market?
With that, I’m not starting at ground zero. Plus, I’ve seen a few articles about the meteoric success of the Rory brothers and Higher Ends in the Midwest.
They’ve done well for themselves, pushing through a whole heap of drama.
Could I do something similar in Upstate New York or New England?
Niche markets for luxury vacation properties are everywhere.
Nothing’s fleshed out yet, but it’s a spark.
The germ of an idea I could feed, maybe.
It doesn’t excite me, but nothing has since I thought I was taking over Blackthorn Holdings.
Correction: since I thought I’d have six more months with Pages.
She hasn’t tried to contact me since the blowout.
I don’t blame her, of course, considering the way I chased her out of my house.
Every time Margot pings me with a text, I can’t help wishing it was her best friend instead.
Fucking stupid.
I don’t regret breaking things off with her.
I can’t regret it.
I couldn’t keep her tied down a second longer, let alone shackled to a man who can’t tell up from down.
I force myself to drink some water to mitigate the next hangover, doing my best to dredge up more about the outlook for local rentals.
Before I get too deep, a lawyer’s email lands in my Inbox.
Daley’s guy.
I think it’s the third time he’s sent an URGENT subject line about the status of the ski resort project. And I’m tempted to ignore it again.
With things at Blackthorn Holdings being so tenuous, it really grates.
There are other people in the organization who can deal with Cooper Daley and his golden retriever energy.
Best to establish that as the precedent before I revoke my right to inherit the estate.
Jackie Wilkes might get flustered for the first time in her life when she finds out.
Hell, everyone will.
I can’t bring myself to care.
Still.
The email sits there, the opening lines accusing me of not doing my job in perfectly polite, formal legalese.