“You’re a Blackthorn, you mean.”
“It’s just a name,” I say, starting on the dishes. “And it’s not like I’m famous on my own. Sure, I go around to big events and people get all giddy to shake my hand. But it’s not like I’m a movie star or famous model.”
“Too modest.” He leans across to bump shoulders with me. “Everyone in New England and New York have heard of the Blackthorns. You’re damn near royalty.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah? Is that why you went all bouncer and made me show you my ID?”
“You’re mad about that?” He throws his head back and laughs.
“Can’t remember the last time I had to show it. Not since I turned twenty-one,” I tell him.
And yes, when you’re a Blackthorn, the security at high-end clubs and restaurants rarely checks. I was carded more in Scottsdale and LA than anywhere else.
The rules are different when you have enough money to buy out entire VIP areas for a girls’ weekend.
“I thought you were trespassing. Simple as.” Kane’s shoulder nudges mine again. Warmth blooms from the contact andmy arms tingle. “You could’ve been some crazy asshole’s accomplice, waiting to snatch my daughter.”
“Mypointis, I’m not that famous. You had no idea who I was.”
“No, but I knew the name. Your grandfather was a legend.” He flips the pancakes and puts the hot ones on a plate, piling them up like he’s done this every day for years.
I wonder if he has.
I get started on the hashbrowns. Might as well contribute something.
“So, what’s next for you?” I ask. “New career? Retirement? Early grave?”
“Very funny,” he deadpans. “I told you, I’m not looking to die like some guys do when they leave the arena.”
“I mean it. What’s next for the great Kane Saint? Another wildly successful start-up? OptiSynth sounds like it’s doing pretty well.”
His shoulders stiffen.
The atmosphere in the room dims.
One second, we’re teasing and laughing. Then we’re dropped into this tense, eerie pit where he looks down at the pan like it’s his life ebbing away.
“I’m out of that game, too. Last company didn’t work out,” he mutters, his eyes still riveted to the sizzling pan.
“So that’s a no?” I whisper.
“Fuck no. The corporate world doesn’t suit me. All that cutthroat cloak-and-dagger shit gets old. If I wanted that, I would’ve gone into politics like my old man wanted.”
Oof. Now we’re getting somewhere.
I noticed his father served a few terms in Congress when I ran my little background check.
For all the talk aboutmyfamily’s lofty achievements, the Saints are no slouches.
There’s a bitterness in his voice I don’t quite understand, though, and before I can ask, there’s a banging upstairs, followed by blunt, rhythmic tapping.
“Dan’s awake. Watch the stove for a second, will you?” Kane peels away from me and walks to the base of the stairs. “Dan, keep it down! Too early, kiddo,” he calls up.
“He really loves to practice, huh?” I say, seizing the opportunity to change subjects.
If Kane shuts down every time I mention his old company, I guess I shouldn’t push it.
