Chapter 22 #3
Jocelyn lived too eccentrically to actually cook for herself, but when she got her last six-figure deal, she used a portion of it to design a state-of-the-art kitchen, which mostly functioned as Hideaway Harbor’s largest liquor cabinet.
“I knew you’d eventually break him.”
Wren frowned. “I didn’t break him.”
“Well, not you, per se. Lady Lovewatch has the whole town curious. Which brother will it be? Did you read what she wrote about my event?”
“I did.”
Jocelyn slid her a glass and lifted her own. “To your hymen.”
Wren rolled her eyes and sipped. “It’s a little jarring how much detail Lady Lovewatch was able to gather.”
“Hmm. Yeah. Weird.” Jocelyn took a long swallow and grinned. “But we all knew Greyson Hawthorne was a jealous man, and now look where you are.”
Wren needed to plan for the future, not dwell in the past. “I don’t have much time. I need your best advice, and I need it quick.” She guzzled the prosecco, hoping it might calm her nerves.
“My advice?” Jocelyn’s silk kimono sleeves gathered at her elbows as she dramatically fanned her face and flattered herself. “Well, I am an award-winning author of Norse cock. And the Hawthornes do have old Scandinavian roots.”
“Jocelyn, focus!”
“Right. Well, the first thing I can tell you to do is hydrate. A good battle always starts with a full flask.”
“Okay.” Wren nodded, drinking down her sparkling wine. “Got it, what else?”
She tapped her chin. “Make sure he gets you nice and wet. Otherwise, things can tear.”
“Tear?”
She waved away her concern. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Greyson’s a real guy. I’m used to writing fictional men with baby arms between their legs.”
“Baby arms?” Wren wasn’t sure her friend’s visuals were helping to calm her nerves.
“Yeah, my readers like ‘em big and veiny.”
Wren’s eyes widened. “Greyson’s pretty big. Do you think it’s going to hurt?”
“Even if it doesn’t, act like it does. Men like to think they’re giants. I’d definitely throw out some oohs and ahhs to play it up right.”
“Joce, I don’t want it to hurt!”
“Then you shouldn’t have waited this long, toots. Your shit’s probably atrophied.”
She planted her face in her hands and groaned. “Why did I come here?”
“Relax. You came here because I’m the most unfiltered friend you have, and you know I’m going to give it to you straight.”
“I think you mean unhinged.”
“Unfiltered, unhinged. Tomato, tow-mah-tow. The point is, once he’s in there, you’re going to ride that man like he’s the last warhorse out of Valhalla.”
Wren choked on her prosecco.
“I’m serious. You summon your inner shieldmaiden, and you plunder that man’s soul. Leave him so dazed he forgets his name but remembers yours for the rest of his life.”
“Jocelyn!”
“Don’t you dare go in there shy, Wren. Be the Viking princess I know you are.”
“My family’s from Boston.”
“Well, Bostonians are a little nuts. Channel your inner Viking and don’t ask for permission—just conquer. Storm the fjord. A true heroine doesn’t tiptoe into a love scene—she raids it.”
Wren blinked. “What does that even mean?”
“Flip him. Mount him. Ravish him like it’s Midsummer and there’s a fertility festival on the line. Make your ancestors proud.”
“I’m pretty sure my ancestors included English Puritans.”
“Then make his proud. Moan like a war horn. Scratch his back like you’re climbing a glacier to save your life. And for the love of Freyja, move your hips like the fertility goddess you are. A true Viking wench never lies still.”
“Okay, okay! I get it.”
“No, you don’t. But you will.” Jocelyn tipped the bottle to refill her glass.
Wren put a hand over the rim. “I have to drive.”
“Oh. Right. You want the bottle? It might help.”
“No, that’s okay. I probably shouldn’t drink.”
“Why?” Jocelyn scrunched up her nose.
“I want to be fully aware.”
“Oh. Smart. Especially if it hurts.”
On second thought, Wren grabbed the bottle by the neck. “Maybe I’ll use it to ice my crotch afterwards.”
“Atta girl! Now, you’re thinking. And one more thing…”
“Yeah?”
“Trust your body. It knows what it wants, even if your brain’s overthinking everything. Let instinct take over.”
“Thanks for the advice.” She slid off the barstool.
“Any time.”
Bottle in hand, Wren exited the kitchen with a slightly haunted expression. “Sorry, I disrupted your sex scene.”
“It’s okay. This actually helped.” She followed her to the door and yelled, “Go forth, my Valkyrie! And remember, if he’s not limping by morning, you probably will be.”
Wren drove home through the darkening harbor streets, Jocelyn’s outrageous advice echoing in her mind as anticipation and nerves warred in her belly.
When she pulled into her driveway, Greyson’s truck already waited in the shadows, headlights cutting through the evening like predatory eyes. Her pulse hammered against her throat as she spotted his silhouette in the driver’s seat, broad shoulders unmistakable even in the dim light.
The engine shut off.
Her hands trembled as she gripped the steering wheel, watching him emerge from the truck with that confident, purposeful stride that had always made her stomach flutter. Tonight, that flutter had transformed into something deeper, more primal.
Tonight, everything would change.