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)
“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.