Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 120631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Concern tightened in her chest. Soren hadn’t mentioned any of this to her, which only further confirmed they weren’t in any sort of serious relationship despite sleeping together for the last eighteen months.
Feeling like it wasn’t her place to comment, Jocelyn finished her wine. “Well, like I said, I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”
By the time she hugged Wren goodbye and made the short walk home, her mind was consumed not just with worries about Soren but also with the frustration of not being able to reach out to him and ask if he was okay.
He knew he could talk to her. Didn’t he? He had to. The fact that he hadn’t only further proved he didn’t want to.
Her house crouched at the end of the lane like a forgotten treasure the sea spat out. The weathered cedar shakes matched the crooked weathervane perfectly.
She stubbornly dragged everything up the back porch in one shot before her arms fell off. Gah, I really need to put that wine glass in the sink. Unfortunately, her arms were too full, which meant it would probably sit there for another two weeks collecting bugs.
She shouldered open the door, and Cordelia launched herself at her shins before she had time to set anything down.
“Hi, baby.” Jocelyn lowered herself and the bags to the floor in a controlled collapse. The tiny Chihuahua rushed to her lap, claiming her dominant position with the solemn confidence of a Rottweiler, using her nose to nudge Jocelyn’s hand to pet her head.
“There’s mommy’s sweet baby. You’re all I need.” Seven pounds of wiry hair shivered steadily on her lap.
It was something about chihuahuas. When they were happy, they shivered. When they were excited, they shivered. When they were angry, scared, hungry, or hyper, they shivered. It had very little to do with cold, and everything to do with the frequency of small things.
She adjusted her unicorn hoodie. Cordelia didn’t have true fur. She had fine, coarse hair shooting out in every direction as if she just licked an electrical socket. Her bulging eyes and a killer blonde mohawk completed the ragged look.
But to Jocelyn, she was adorable.
“I brought you nothing. As usual.” Jocelyn kissed her little head and stood. “I know. I’m a terrible mother.”
Cordelia looked up at her adoringly as she wagged her little tail rapidly.
“How about some lunch?” No sooner had she realized she’d forgotten her donuts at Esther’s than she noticed something else that had been forgotten. “Shit.”
Soren’s suit jacket hung over the banister at the base of the stairs, where he must have left it last night. Her hand drifted to the wool, hesitating a split second before grazing the material with far too much reverence.
Charcoal wool with a hand-stitched silk lining, the color of ox blood. She lifted it off the banister and shook out the wrinkles, bringing it to her nose without thinking, then drew back immediately.
His familiar scent lived in the fabric, but that wasn’t all she smelled. The familiar trace of cedar and leather was there, tainted by the potent scent of women’s perfume.
Her eyes narrowed at the cold, floral, and unmistakably French stench. Too heavy to result from proximity alone. This was pressed into the fabric by touch.
She threw the jacket back on the banister, no longer caring if it got wrinkled.
Whose was it this time?
Maybe that blonde from Connecticut or the redhead with the yacht. How long had she touched him to make his clothes reek?
It was a toxic line of thought, but once that train left the station, there was no bringing it back.
Had she pressed her hands onto his lapels?
Wreathed her arms around his neck?
The intrusive thoughts made Jocelyn ill. Of course, she expected nothing less. Soren went out every Friday night—interviewing for wives.
What had happened on his date to bring him here, to her door? He must not have liked this Friday’s candidate.
She sniffed the jacket again and curled her lip. Shalimar. Expensive. Hoity. Not at all like anything Jocelyn would wear.
Her jaw locked as undefined feelings surfaced like whitecaps on a placid sea. She should have never let him in. Look how one visit continued to disrupt her peace. Her erratic overthinking was getting out of hand, and she needed to rein herself in.
They both knew there was no future between them. This was one more sign that it was time to leave their foolish little affair in the past.
Cordelia stared up at her from the runner, beady eyes unimpressed.
“Don’t give me that look.” Jocelyn glared back at the dog. “I’m not the train wreck here. He is.”
Cordelia sneezed, and her tongue lolled out like a dry piece of ham.
Cracking open a new bottle of peanut butter whiskey, Jocelyn tipped it over a frosted glass of ice and carried it to her desk. Her laptop woke with a tap, her unfinished manuscript taunting her with the page she’d left unfinished. Her Viking was not happy about having an arranged marriage forced on him, and even less pleased by how attractive he found his future bride since she was of an enemy clan.