2. “CAN YOU STAND UP,WILL YOU JUST FALL DOWN?” #5
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.
As Cordelia noisily nibbled her wet food, Jocelyn carried her laptop and glass to the sofa. Maybe a little distraction before she got to work.
She sipped her cocktail and opened the folder labeled Boring Tax Stuff, knowing damn well she wasn’t about to do accounting of any kind. The folder was a decoy.
She’d installed her camera system three years ago, after the sixth or seventh time a male reader slid into her DMs with unwanted dick pics and far too much knowledge of her location in Hideaway Bay.
The cameras made her feel safe. She didn’t typically hold onto the footage, but there were a few recorded encounters worth keeping.
Particularly, the night she got blackout drunk after the lobster trap tree lighting ceremony two Decembers ago. She opened the archive folder and clicked the file labeled WTF.
The front walkway came up first, grainy in the December darkness. The cameras only recorded movement, and the motion-sensor lights clicked on the moment she lurched into frame, hanging sloppily from the arm of a dark figure in a charcoal wool coat.
When she first watched the footage, it took her a second to recognize him. But now, she could identify his body from a hundred miles away.
Snow dusted Soren’s shoulders as he did his best to keep her from falling on her ass. She wasn’t making it easy on him. The ground had been icy, and he practically had to haul her dead weight up the porch steps.
Second-hand embarrassment always flooded her when she saw what a mess she’d been that night. Thank god Soren had gotten her out of town when he did, because if anyone else had seen her that way, she would have had to move to the next town.
When she slid down his body, he set her on the top step, where she collapsed onto the porch. Flurries salted her coat and wool beanie hat, as she laughed and opened her mouth, trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue.
She laughed at what a ridiculous drunk mess she’d been, but adjusted the volume nevertheless.
Soren stood over her, futilely trying to lift her as she attempted to make snow angels on the snow-dusted planks of the porch. “Up you go.”
“Wait! I’m makin’ art here.”
“Come on, Joce.” He hoisted her into a seated position, pulling her toward his shoulder.
She twisted, gripping his lapel and laughed up at him. “Where’d you learn to grab a woman like that, Warden?”
Soren sighed as he gave up and let her fall back onto the porch.
“Hey!”
He dug through her purse. “Where are your keys?”
“There’s one under the plant, but don’t bother. S’unlocked.”
“Smart. Sensory lights and a security system with an unlocked door.”
“I’s gonna lock it.”
“No, you weren’t.” He opened the door, setting off her Chihuahua alarm. Cordelia attacked his ankles with the vigor and gusto of a rabid badger. “What the fuck?”
“There’s my baby,” she cooed, but the dog only wanted to kill Soren.
“Your baby’s an asshole! Joce, do something!”
“All right, all right. Don’t have a hissy fit, your Royal High Maintenance. Help me up.”
Soren pulled her up by her arms. Unfortunately, Jocelyn’s boneless body slipped out of her coat sleeves and gravity won.
“I’m goin’ down!” She stumbled back.
“Shit!” He caught her before she toppled off the porch step. “That’s it.” He hauled her over his shoulder like a limp noodle and she grunted when his shoulder wedged under her ribs. Then she burped and laughed.
Even now, Jocelyn found it funny. Mostly because Soren hated any female behavior that lacked class, and she loved getting under his skin.
Cordelia’s attack continued, as he hauled Jocelyn into the foyer like a sack of potatoes.
“Call your rodent off!”
Every step shoved his shoulder deeper under her ribs. “Ugh, you’re gonna make me hurl.”
“You better not fucking puke on me, Joce.” The hall camera picked up the feed as they entered the foyer. “Damn it. Make that Tasmanian devil stop barking!”
Jocelyn groaned and made a few slow kissing sounds, pitching her voice in a sing-song tone. “Who’s a pretty baby?”
“That thing’s far from pretty.” The dog continued to growl and bark as he dumped her off his shoulder onto the carpet, careless of causing her injury at this point.
Luckily, the crumpled wool coat offered a soft landing. She hooted and flung her beanie hat onto the console table, then peeled off her gloves and threw them at Soren. “You’re such a brute.” She rubbed her elbow where it had hit the ground on her rough landing.
“You did this to yourself.”
“Oh, okay, Captain Control. I forgot you hate fun.” Her foot poked straight up in the air. “Do my boots.”
“Do them yourself.” Soren wrestled the dog into the powder room as she grappled with her laces. By the time she had one boot off, she gave up and flopped back in defeat.
“You’re a wreck.” Soren crouched to help her with the other, but something shifted between them. Cordelia’s barking made it hard to make out whatever she murmured, but it was enough to make his whole body go still. Then he said something back that was also lost.
Unfortunately, her actual memories of that night, and anything he said, were long gone.
He slid off her boot and set it aside. “There.”
Her chest heaved as she stared up at him, a strange look passing between them as she lay like a splatter of frizzy hair and a tangle of bones on the foyer floor.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked as if honestly curious and for once not trying to antagonize her.
“Don’t be nice to me, Soren.”
Six words. He should have listened.
“Since when do you call me Soren?” He set the boot aside with the other.
She arched her spine, rolling her shoulders against the carpet. “Since when do you help me take off my clothes?”
“That’s hardly what I’m doing.”
She lifted her hips. “Pants next?”
“Joce,” he said in warning, but her fingers popped the button of her jeans anyway.
“Soren,” she mocked with equal warning. Then her arm flopped to the side like a dead fish. That was about the extent of her game in that moment. “You have to help me. I’m all pickled and flim-flammy.”
When she started to pull off her jeans, he caught her hands at her hips. “Pants stay on.”
“No,” she whined. “I hate jeans. It’s a sin to wear outside clothes in the house. The body is meant to be free.”
“I think you’re free enough.”
Ignoring his hold, she shoved the jeans down her thighs, but the denim bunched and tangled at her knees. “Help me, damnit.”
Soren sighed and cursed under his breath. “Fine, but you’re going right to bed.”
“Duh.”
He peeled off her jeans and stiffened when she casually spread her thighs open, her sweater bunching at her tapered waist as her belly button and bare hips flashed him.
She might have been totally shitfaced, but she still looked damn hot in those sexy lace panties. Her arms flopped over her head, lifting her sweater to her ribs and fully exposing her lower belly.
She didn’t blame him for staring. She would have even excused a stolen touch, but what he did next had confused her for weeks.
Soren carefully adjusted her sweater to protect her modesty. “Come on.” He pulled her up on wobbly legs and walked her to the stairs. “Which way’s your room?”
“Why? You tryin’ t’get me into bed?”
“Yes. And I’d like to get you there before you vomit.”
She scowled. “Dude, vomiting’s for rookies. Give me a lil credit.”
“Well, you’re not really handling your liquor like a heavyweight right now.”
“I’m—” She hiccupped and pressed a fist to her lips, swallowing back whatever threatened to come up.
“Christ.” He slipped an arm under her knees and lifted her like a child to his chest. Surprisingly, she curled right into him.
The camera upstairs took over as he carried her up the stairs, but they didn’t go to her bedroom. They went into the hall bathroom at the top of the steps, where she ended her puke-free record.
Time lapsed, and Soren reappeared twenty minutes later, only to disappear into her room and reappear with a clean shirt. She crawled out of the bathroom and rolled to her back in the upstairs hall, midway to her bedroom.
“Easy.”
She moaned. “I can’t believe you puked.”
“I didn’t. You did.”
“I know. I was there.” Helping her sit up, he guided a glass of water to her mouth. “Here, drink this.”
She did as he commanded, looking up at him with big, trusting eyes.
“Not too fast.” He pulled away the glass and carefully set it aside.
She slouched and grumbled, “Why are you being nice right now?”
“I am nice. You just tend to miss the signs through all your bitchiness.” He peeled her stained sweater up over her head and stilled.
She looked down at her bra and back to him. “What?”
His stare jumped from the lace cups to her face, and his jaw ticked. “Here.” He held out the shirt and turned away.
She didn’t take it. Instead, she unhooked the clasp between her breasts, and the bra parted. “Oops.”
He glanced back then quickly averted his gaze. “Jocelyn.”
“What?”
He refused to look at her. “Take the shirt.”
She pulled the bra off and threw it at his head.
Soren glanced down and cursed. His hand clenched around the T-shirt. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Whah my doing?”
“You’re drunk,” he said, with mounting frustration.
“Facts.”
“This isn’t funny.” He turned with stern disapproval, trying hard to look anywhere but at her tits. He opened the shirt, aiming for her head, but she batted it away.
“Jocelyn!” he snapped. “You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”
“No, you are.” She pushed her socked foot against his chest, and arched back, her arms falling above her head.