2. “CAN YOU STAND UP,WILL YOU JUST FALL DOWN?” #4
“Okay, fine. It’s not all foot rubs and fun cravings.
Greyson’s been sweet-talking our chef at The Haven.
Since he and Freya put me on a prenatal nutrition plan, I haven’t had anything good to eat.
” Wren reached for another piece of bread with zero hesitation.
“Everything’s organic, balanced, measured to the gram, and tastes like the forest floor after a rainstorm. ”
“What a weird way to say I love you.”
“He does love me. He’d flip out if he knew I was eating this.”
“Mmm, how delightfully un-controlling and not at all Hawthorne of him.”
“Stop. You know how they all are. None of it’s done maliciously. He read a book that said certain foods were better for baby development. I appreciate him being so involved.”
“You’re right. Most men don’t even read, let alone think about their wives’ fiber intake.”
“Pooping is the oldest sign of good health, I’ll have you know.”
“Dear God.” She took a long gulp of wine, familiar warmth settling behind her ribs. “How has this become our lunch conversation?”
Wren’s gaze followed her glass, then drifted to the bags shoved in the corner of the booth. “So what are you really doing with all those bags?”
“I told you. Vision board.”
“With jute twine?”
“It’s a rustic vision board. Very Pinterest. I’m aiming for a coastal grandma-core aesthetic.”
Wren narrowed her eyes in that particular way that meant she’d file the information for future excavations rather than press the issue now. “It would have been more convincing if you said the rope was for some sort of BDSM kink. You’re up to something.”
How the hell had she spotted the rope?
“I’m always up to something. That’s what makes me interesting and you so beautifully paranoid.” Jocelyn lifted her slice and took a big bite, making it impossible to answer any more questions.
Thankfully, Wren did the same and moaned as they fell into a welcomed silence filled with orgasmic cheese and dough.
Afternoon light threw sunny squares across the checkered tablecloth as they ate like women who hadn’t been properly fed in months. Every time the kitchen door swung open, it released a gust of basil and roasted garlic.
There was barely a crumb left on the table when they finished. Wren’s appetite had grown from that of a small bird’s to that of a grown man’s.
“You’re definitely having a boy.”
“That’s what I think.”
“And Greyson?”
“He thinks it’s a girl.”
“He just wants a little you.”
“I am his favorite.” She laughed.
Jocelyn smiled because it was true. Wren really was Greyson’s absolute favorite person in the whole world.
Eight billion people in the world, and he took one look at Wren and decided, “This is my person.” He loved her more than his career and maybe even his brothers, which was saying a lot, because the Hawthorne brothers were always a package deal.
“You two really are perfectly matched. It’s so pure and natural, even the envy doesn’t feel toxic. It’s just…there, basking in your disgustingly radiant rays of happiness.”
“Says the woman who sells happy endings for a living.”
“You make it sound like I run a shady massage parlor on the outskirts of town.”
“Don’t you?” They both laughed.
“Touché.”
Wren patted her belly and sighed in contentment. “Speaking of happy endings…have you had—”
“No.” Jocelyn cut her off a little too quickly. “Nothing worth mentioning at least.”
Wren eyed her skeptically. “Maybe it’s the weather.”
Jocelyn frowned. “You and Greyson?” No way they were already in a dry spell.
Wren shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s still incredible, but it’s not as frequent.”
“Well, ergonomically speaking, you’re a little top-heavy at the moment. Are you even in the mood?”
She arched a brow. “You’d be surprised. It’s actually one of my cravings.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Well, tell Grey to handle his chores. What the hell’s he doing?”
“He’s been worried.”
“About what, poking the baby?” Jocelyn snorted. “Please, his dick can’t be that big.”
“No, he’s been concerned about Soren.”
Jocelyn looked up from the mound of grated cheese she’d been dusting into a pile. “What about Soren?”
Wren shrugged, her eyes strangely locked on Jocelyn. “I thought you might know.”
“Know what?”
“That he’s been under a lot of stress since taking over as CEO.”
“Why would I know that? Soren and I don’t talk about our feelings. We can barely stand being in the same room with each other.”
Something flashed in her friend’s eyes before she looked away. “Well, Grey’s been worried about his stress levels. You know how serious he gets.”
Soren definitely had a tense side. The fishery was left to all three brothers, but Greyson and Logan didn’t seem to want anything to do with the corporate end of things. Logan showed some interest in the beginning, but his interest fizzled shortly after Magnus died.
“I’m sure Soren will find his way—”
“That’s just it. The future of the company isn’t solely Soren’s decision.
There’s a board of trusties, and several of the members are older and want things to continue the way they’ve always been.
There’s a big vote coming up, and Soren is using it to restructure the whole company.
He’s been pressuring Grey and Logan to get more involved, but they are as involved as they plan to be right now.
Which, as you can imagine, Soren isn’t taking well.
Greyson’s worried he’s going to give himself a heart attack if he doesn’t stop trying to control things outside of his control. ”
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.”