Take Me Saltbound Sailor (Modern Vikings #2)

Prologue

Chloe

“...Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven...”

I pause the countdown with a sigh, pressing my forehead against the cool glass as yet another couple walks by my window.

Okay, so maybe what I’m doing is a little creepy, but people watching has become my new hobby when I’m not painting or sculpting.

It’s not like I want to spend my evenings with my nose pressed up against my bedroom window, but.

..what else does one do on a Saturday evening when they don’t have much of a social life?

It’s pathetic. A little sad really, but it’s my life.

I pull my eyes away from the twenty-eighth couple and glance at the setting sun, admiring the way the last rays paint the sky in hues of fiery oranges and deep violet. It’s a breathtaking view that would usually have me reaching for my paint brushes and canvas but not tonight.

Tonight, I’m content watching couples and feeling sorry for myself.

Instead of going out like a normal twenty-two-year-old would, I’m perched on the plush window seat of my bedroom, in this sterile, expensive townhouse that feels more like a gilded cage.

Watching all twenty-eight—well, twenty-nine now—couples pass by only amplifies my solitude.

They’re all headed somewhere, aren’t they?

Some dressed up—sequins catching the last of the fading light, a woman in a floral dress with her hair pinned just so.

Others in jeans, laughing too loud, in no hurry to get wherever they’re going.

But all of them are with someone. Hands linked, shoulders bumping, faces turned toward each other like the rest of the street doesn't exist.

I wonder where they’re going, and what time they’ll get home. If I stay up, I bet I’ll catch some of them on the way home, face flushed, silly grins on their faces. Living life as it was meant to be lived.

“Thirty.”

My fingers trace the cool glass as longing claws at me, a persistent ache in my chest. I long to feel someone’s hand in mine as we stroll down the sidewalk, his voice low in my ear, drawing a laugh out of me.

God, what would it feel like—lips pressed to my cheek, a hand tightening around my waist, pulling me out of the path of incoming traffic.

I’d laugh, reward him with a kiss on the cheek like the woman on the street just did.

“Thirty-one.”

At the end of the night, we’d end up in some hotel room or back at his apartment. Warm sheets, a room that smelled like him…like us. Breakfast in bed. A lazy Sunday morning with nowhere to be.

“Thirty-two.”

“What are you doing?”

My head whips around, and I straighten when I find my mother’s disapproving gaze on me. It always unnerves me how similar we look. The hair, blue eyes, and the delicate bone structure. We’ve been confused for sisters more times than I care to count.

Her warm chocolate brown hair is styled in waves around her face, and her full lips are pursed with judgment.

Even with the frown, she looks stunning and perfectly put together.

Nothing like me. I might have her face and bone structure, but none of the cool air she carries.

None of the quiet authority that follows her into a room—whether it’s a boardroom or her daughter’s bedroom.

“Is it time?” I ask, rising from my seat and smoothing the wrinkles from my dress. Red. She insisted I wear red for whatever gathering we’re hosting tonight. She also selected my hairstyle—waves around my face. And the finishing touches—red lipstick and blush to color my pale cheeks.

I try not to squirm as I wait for her to finish assessing me. When her blue eyes finally find mine, there isn’t a hint of approval in them. “We’re having very important guests tonight,” she says, smoothing her perfectly manicured hands over her black dress. “I expect you not to embarrass me.”

“I won’t.”

“Good, now come with me.” I silently follow her out of my bedroom and down the hallway, where she stops at the top of the stairway and turns to me. “Your father and I kept the details of the party from you because we wanted to surprise you, Chloe.”

My heart jumps. “Me?”

“Yes,” she says with a hint of a smile. “Why does it surprise you that your own parents would want to throw a party for you? We care about you.”

Emotion clogs my throat as I turn to my mother, eyes swimming with tears I try to force back.

Things have been strained between us for years.

I didn’t get a party when I was accepted to art school.

I didn’t get so much as a card when I graduated a few weeks ago.

My parents were never exactly thrilled that I chose painting over law—they indulged it when I was young because it made them look good in front of their friends, but even that wore off the moment they realized it wasn’t a phase.

Whatever fragile relationship we had fractured when I enrolled in fine arts.

And this party…

Does this mean they’ve finally accepted it—accepted me. My talents, my choices?

“Thank you,” I say, flashing her a wide watery smile.

“You’re welcome. Now let’s head down and meet our guests.” Her smile warms a degree, and she turns toward the stairs.

I maintain a polite front as we welcome the guests, who I soon realize are almost entirely my parents’ circle.

Not one of my own friends. I push the disappointment down.

One by one, our guests walk in, fawning over me like I’m some piece of art, complimenting my mother for passing down her great genes to me.

I remain by my parents’ side with a polite smile that begins to ache the longer I hold it.

They’re doing this for me, I remind myself. They’re trying.

“And here comes the man of the hour!” My father’s voice carries across the foyer, drawing my attention to the door.

My curiosity peaks at the guest deserving of such a grand welcome.

“Fashionably late, I see.” Whatever response comes from the doorway sends my father guffawing. “Welcome, son. Come in and meet Chloe.”

I keep my smile in place as my father steps aside, and a man walks in.

He’s tall, easily a head above me, and broad-shouldered, filling the expensive cut of his suit.

His short blond hair is perfectly styled, and his jawline is sharp, chiseled, the kind you see in those ridiculously expensive cologne ads.

He smiles, a flash of white teeth, and his eyes, a startling shade of earthy brown, crinkle at the corners.

My smile wavers.

He’s undeniably handsome—the kind of handsome you see on a fashion runway—but something about him sets my teeth on edge. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and everything from the expensive tailoring of his suit to the gleam of a designer watch at his cuff, feels…manufactured.

And he fits perfectly in my world—the one my parents have curated for me.

“Chloe, my girl,” my father beckons me forward, and I go without hesitation. His hand settles on my shoulder briefly and pulls me to his side, a wide grin on his face. “I want you to meet Royce Simpson.”

"Chloe." He takes my hand before I've offered it. His grip is firm. Almost too firm. "I've heard wonderful things."

I smile and open my mouth to say something polite. But my father is already steering him toward the drinks.

Nothing more is said. No explanation, no context. Just a name and a handshake and then the current of the party carries us apart, and I tell myself I’m reading too much into it.

Dinner is announced, and we move to the table—a long, candlelit spread that could seat twenty.

I find my place card and take my seat. Royce is across from me.

My mother leans down as she passes and says quietly, “He’s a gifted attorney—his firm expects him to make partner within the year.

” She says it the way someone mentions a selling point.

I nod and briefly glance at Royce, confusion about my parents’ praise of the man creasing my brow.

“Ladies and gentlemen—” My father’s voice carries to every corner of the room, and the table falls quiet.

There is warmth in it, the particular warmth he reserves for rooms like this one, for moments he has orchestrated and is proud of.

He raises his glass, and the candlelight catches the crystal.

“We are so grateful you could join us tonight. This family has much to celebrate.” He pauses, letting the anticipation build the way he always does.

Despite everything I know about my father, I feel it—that small, stupid flutter of hope.

“But before we eat, I’d like to share the news that brings us all here. ”

I reach for my water glass.

“Chloe.” His eyes find mine across the length of the table, and something in his expression makes my stomach drop before the words even come. It isn’t the look he gives me on the rare occasion when he’s proud of something I’ve done. “Stand up, sweetheart.”

All eyes turn to me. I push back my chair and rise, cheeks already warm, smile already in place—the one I’ve been trained to wear since I was old enough to sit at a table like this one.

“Your mother and I couldn’t be more proud of the young woman you’ve become.” He pauses, and my heart does something treacherous in my chest, lifting, just slightly, just enough. Is this it? Are they finally acknowledging—

“Which is exactly why we’ve worked so hard to secure your future.”

The warmth drains out of me all at once.

“Royce.” My father turns to the man seated across from me—a man I have spent the better part of this evening trying not to look at directly, the way a child avoids looking at something they don’t want to be real.

He rises smoothly, unhurried, like a man who has been waiting for this moment all evening.

Because he has been. “I would like to formally announce the engagement of my daughter, Chloe Arnold, to Royce Simpson.”