Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Clee, she’s so young. She has so much life to figure out. So much future.
Why the hell would she ever settle for a man she’ll regret?
A man who hasn’t stopped wrestling with demons since the day the mother of his child walked out?
I must have a type, and they’re always trouble.
Cleo Blackthorn was just a different kind, plain and clear and devastating.
Why should I let Kit get her hopes up that we’ll ever be more than a two-person family?
I roll over again, snarling and staring at the empty space where she used to lie. I must be kidding myself about hearing her breathing.
No, just the wind and the house settling. A branch I need to get trimmed scraping underneath the window.
And unlike Charli, she isn’t all trouble, and that’s the entire fucking problem.
The next few days are grim.
We do our final checks. She talks through her tentative deal with the museum.
We get everything prepped and ready for the official move to the big city. We avoid face-eating emotions.
Cleo stays busy on the phone or hunkered over her laptop, idly painting with Kit in the evenings. Clearly trying to take her mind off stress.
I make my own arrangements and dig deeper into Black Talon. There’s no sign they have any organized presence in the US, but that didn’t stop them before.
No guarantee Fairfax won’t find out what we’re up to either. I want to be as certain as possible that even if he does figure it out, there’ll be no way he can get to her.
The whole time, Cleo barely speaks to me unless it’s straight business.
I get it. I really do, and in many ways it’s the most painless option.
Doesn’t stop that stabbing sensation in my chest or the longing looks at a woman who means the end too soon.
I’ve become a softie before I’m forty and it’s fucking disgusting.
“Dad.” Kit pushes past me to peel an orange while I’m cooking. I’ve spent more time breaking out elaborate old favorites the past two days.
Fried chicken with au gratin potatoes drenched in cream. Lobster étouffée. Shepherd’s pie with lamb braised to perfection.
Helps me clear my head and shut the guilt up in my gut for five whole minutes. If I’m destined to piss off everyone in this household, at least I’ll send them away well-fed.
“You packed?” I ask her.
“Yeahhh.” She pouts. “Do I have to go?”
“Yes, Kit. No whining about this. We already had that conversation.”
“But what about the egg?”
“What about it?”
“I should get one more look before it’s gone for good. Just a quick one? I just wanna see it one more time before it’s stuffed behind glass forever.”
“You had your look. We’re not pulling it out again,” I say firmly. “And don’t ask to go to New York. It’s no place for you.”
Her pout could turn July into January.
With Cleo’s permission, I let Kit have her final look yesterday. Just once.
Kit spent ten solid minutes staring at that thing, mesmerized by its glitter and vibrant colors. Me, I’ll be glad if I never lay eyes on that cursed motherfucker again.
Cleo walks into the kitchen then, her sketch pad tucked under her arm, and sniffs. “Smells good in here.”
“Cleo!” Kit twists and offers her an orange slice. “Please tell Dad I can go to New York with you guys.”
Cleo hmms as she accepts the fruit and pops it into her mouth. I don’t have to glance at her to know she hasn’t looked at me once.
“Why does he say you can’t go?”
“Because it’s too ‘dangerous’ or something. Whatevs.” She tosses her head back with a haughty look.
She folds her arms and scowls at me like Cleo’s been giving her lessons.
I turn around, my back against the counter, just in time to see Cleo’s face tighten.
You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife.
Kit’s caught me a couple times and asked what’s wrong. Don’t even know how to go there, so I don’t.
Clee wanted more, and I settled for less.
What else is there to say? That’s the long and short and ugly. TMI for a little girl.
I saved us all by shooting her down, but I know she doesn’t see it that way—and damn, the longer this awkward song and dance continues, the harder I second-guess.
Fuck that.
Even the way she stands around me says she’s fuming. Or hurt.
All straight, long legs and a stiff back. Her jaw pointed, head up.
A damnable reminder how easy it would be to reclaim her lips if I truly had a death wish.
Even when she’s hard, she’s still soft.
It kills me.
I curl my fingers into fists and will myself back to sanity.
“Tell you what, Kit,” I say, trying to breathe in this funeral atmosphere. “I’ll let you say goodbye to the egg one more time before you head out. How’s that?” I look at Cleo. She finally glances at me, her eyes iced over. “Assuming you’re cool with that?”