But the second they place her or hear the name Blackthorn, they start treating her like she’s a celebrity.
Sometimes their curious gazes land on me, but few people ask.
Margot basks in the attention, drinking it in. But I think it’s more for their benefit than her own ego.
Guess it’s expected from a place that clearly revered Leonidas Blackthorn.
But did the old man have any enemies?
That question lingers on my mind.
It’s rare for a billionaire real estate mogul who lived like a king to win nothing but respect. People are petty as hell, jealous by nature, and in all his years, he likely stepped on a few toes to keep his empire.
Still, no one mentions anything out of the ordinary.
After we’ve trotted through the town’s main drag on our horses, we stop by a park and what looks like another pop-up market.
Is every little town this spontaneous or are they just showing off?
Then I get a good whiff of the food from a couple nearby food trucks, and my skepticism dies on the spot.
Seafood.
Lobster rolls, fried clam strips, and crabcakes spritzed with lemon.
My stomach growls like a lion, a reminder that we haven’t eaten since breakfast.
Dan pulls his pony to a halt, sliding off the saddle like he was born for it.
The pony bends down and starts grazing on grass, unbothered by the laughing crowd swarming around, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm day.
“We can stop here, right, Dad?” he asks.
“Yeah. Good place to take a breather.” I swing my leg up and over from behind Margot, sliding to the ground before I extend a hand to her. “You good?”
Her eyes flick from my face to the hand I’m holding out and she smiles. “Thanks. Such a gentleman.”
“I’ve got you.”
Her face shines as she takes my hand and lets me help her down.
I’m so relentlessly fucked.
Dan does the same with Sophie like the good brother I raised him to be, and I take the reins in my hand.
By the looks of it, these guys won’t go far if we keep them in view, but better safe than sorry. I tie them to the nearby fence next to a horse rest area.
My stomach rumbles again as Margot steps back, her smile widening before she turns to the kids.
“Okay, you’re starving. Lunch is on me! What are you hungry for?”
“Lobster roll,” I say immediately.
Sophie laughs, covering her face.
“Dad loves lobster,” she explains.
“Freshlobster,” I correct sharply. “None of that rubbery crap that’s been on ice for days. Always in butter. No mayo.”
