11. “How You Like Me Now?”
“HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?”
The elevator doors opened on the forty-fifth floor, and Soren strutted across the threshold with the swagger of a man who earned every bit of authority he claimed. The C-suite atrium was alive with demands, a centric part of the hive where the buzz never stopped.
His assistant, Marie, was already standing, prepared with a full debriefing of his morning schedule. “Good morning, Mr. Hawthorne. Did you have a nice weekend?”
“I had a fantastic weekend, Marie. How about you?”
“Mine was quiet, the way I like it.”
“Great.”
She dove right into business. “Brennan’s waiting on the New England logistics. Parsons needs the Q4 sign-off before lunch. Mr. Aldrich emailed to request the numbers for the Poland deal. And there are Danishes in the break room if you’d like me to fetch you one.”
“Danishes?”
“A thank you from the bank.”
He moved toward his office without breaking stride, his mind still threading through every delicious memory from the weekend. The taste of her. The surrender. The moment she finally admitted she was his.
He’d won. Actually won. And Jocelyn was finally his.
Not just a body he sometimes begged the right to touch, but someone he could call and talk to, someone he could plan a future with.
The world narrowed to a crisp, precise view, clearer, as if everything he’d ever wanted had finally come into focus.
“Pull the Brennan file and get me his projections by the end of the day,” Soren decided, ready to take on the world. “Tell Parsons I need the Q4 raw data in my office in twenty minutes. Not the summary. The raw numbers.”
“Already pulled both,” Marie kept pace beside him, her tablet angled toward his sight line. “Brennan’s waiting. Parsons is ready whenever you are.”
The office door opened before they reached it. He implemented the system himself after Magnus died. The locks read his biometric signature and only his—a small rebellion against the ghost that still haunted this space.
He entered the space, walking right to the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the Portland harbor below. Boats moved in calculated patterns, a whole machine of commerce humming with the tireless efforts of worker bees keeping the hive alive.
It was but one of many anchorages their fleets shipped out of. Hawthorne Fishery had put competitors’ names to rest and now monopolized ports in every coastal city in America and several around the globe.
His father’s desk sat at the center of the room. He took his throne without hesitation, without the old whisper of doubt that used to creep in whenever he sat down.
“These are the numbers?” He opened the file waiting on his desk.
“Yes.” The efficient beauty of Marie was that she never diluted work with irrelevant details. “And whenever you’re ready, I’ll get Brennan on the line.”
The high from his weekend still pulsed through his veins, like a World Cup victory he wanted to share. “Get him on the phone. And I’ll take a cold-pressed juice when you have a second.”
“Right away, sir.”
As soon as she left, he paged through the reports. The numbers appeared fine, but his brain wasn’t exactly in a calculating mood. Skimming down the columns of neatly organized data, he found himself recalling the feel of her body, entwined with his as they soaked in his tub.
“Did you hide your battleship and rubber duckie before I came in here?”
“Of course. Why? Did you want to play?”
She laughed. “I’m a little too tired to play.”
He shook his head. “Don’t get tired yet. You’re still mine for another…” He reached for his phone and checked the time. “Nineteen hours.”
“Soren, we barely slept.”
“We can rest when we’re dead.”
“If you don’t let me get some sleep soon, I’ll be dead by Monday.” She sank lower into the tub and bubbles clung to her chin. “I at least need some coffee.”
“That, I can provide.”
She grinned, looking particularly sexy with her hair twisted into that sloppy bun and all those wet ringlets falling around her face. “I was eyeing up your espresso machine when you fed King his twelfth meal of the day. How are your foam skills?”
“Pretty good. I can make a shamrock or a very basic flower.”
“I’ll take a double shot macchiato with a frothy flower on top, please.”
“Your wish is my command.”
“Ooh, I like the sound of that.” She reached for the bottle of champagne she’d brought upstairs. “I think this one’s my favorite so far.” She’d lost her cup somewhere between the den and the bedroom and was now drinking straight from the bottle.
“Let me try.”
When she stretched to pass it to him, her reach was short. He leaned up and caught her wrist, pulling her onto his lap, sloshing water over the lip of the soaking tub. She laughed and held back the bottle when he tried to steal it.
“Say please.”
“Please.”
Rather than hand him the bottle, she took a sip, holding it in her mouth, and leaned forward to kiss him. Bubbles raced over his tongue as he tasted every corner of her sexy mouth. His fingers knotted in her messy hair, and he was immediately hard again.
“Put me inside of you,” he whispered against her lips.
She reached underwater and lifted to her knees, lowering slowly over him as they both groaned.
“I could fuck you for days.”
“I’m realizing that.”
“Is it too much?” He hadn’t been gentle the last few times he had her, which was why he suggested a soak in the tub.
“I’ll live.”
He frowned. “Joce, if you’re sore—”
She covered his mouth. “I’m fine. I promise.”
He stared into her eyes, reading the honesty he usually had to search for. “Okay.”
“As a matter of fact…” She took another sip of champagne and set the bottle aside. “I sort of like being in the power seat.” She rocked her hips, riding him slowly under the warm water.
“Don’t get too used to it.”
“You hush. It’s my turn to be the boss.”
His hand knotted in her bun, tugging her head back and exposing her throat. Leaning up, he licked the long column of her neck and nibbled her ear. “You like when I’m in control.”
Her laugh was confirmation enough.
After the bath, he’d made her the best macchiato she’d ever have. Jocelyn ran on a strict diet of sugar and caffeine, so once she was properly fed and watered, she was ready to go ten more rounds.
“I like seeing you in my things,” he said, trailing a finger down the lapel of his robe that hung off her shoulder.
“Me Soren. I territorial caveman. Me like Jocelyn in house,” she said in a gruff barbarian voice. “Have big house and big dog to compensate for little—”
He kissed her. “Watch it.”
She laughed against his mouth, her kisses now tasting like sugared coffee. “We should order pizza and eat it in your big, fancy dining room. Do you have any oversized candelabras?”
“Actually, I do. But I was thinking about eating something else.”
“What?”
He scooped her into his arms and carried her through the house, not stopping until he set her down at the head of the table.
“Lie back.” He untied the robe and eased her back.
Once he lowered himself into the winged chair across from her, he yanked her to the edge and pushed open her knees. “Perfect. I’m starved.”
“Soren—” She gasped when he took his first taste.
Pulling her legs over his shoulders, he dug in, feasting like a king and not stopping until he ate his fill.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Marie’s voice cut in, ripping him from the delicious memory. “Mr. Brennan is on line two.”
“Thank you, Marie.” Soren adjusted his pants and lifted the receiver. “Brennan.” He greeted, not wasting time with pleasantries. “Walk me through the logistics.”
The man on the other end explained tariff complications, port scheduling conflicts, and seasonal volatility in the New England market.
Soren listened with the kind of focus that rewarded precision and punished excuses.
His eyes moved across the harbor while his mind tracked three different problems simultaneously.
“Get me updated projections by Friday,” he cut in. “I want contingency routes for New England to protect our asses in case tariffs shift before Q1. Loop in environmental. You have the authority. Make it happen.”
He hung up without waiting for confirmation.
Marie was already there with the Parsons file and a freshly juiced mix of daily vitamins. “Q4 raw data, sir. Also, Olivia Aldrich called twice. Said it’s urgent.”
Soren took the file and opened it without responding to the second piece of information.
His eyes moved across the numbers—revenue streams, cost per unit, projected growth margins.
The data told stories few could translate, but he’d learned to speak this language as a young boy, imitating his dad in an ambitious hunt for recognition and praise that never came.
He flagged two line items for deeper investigation. Approved the spending on infrastructure that Parsons requested. Signed off on the quarterly projections with a note for the next quarter strategy. All in under ten minutes.
When he handed the file back to Marie, she informed him, “The strategic advisors are setting up in the east conference room. You have forty minutes.”
“Good.”
He pulled his cell from his pocket and checked his notifications.
Nothing from Jocelyn yet.
He expected her to call or text by now. After such a groundbreaking weekend, he was sure she’d reach out. Maybe he was being impatient. She was probably writing and catching up on emails. He’d give her more time, deciding she’d come around at her own pace.
Her silence didn’t rattle him. They left on excellent terms, and she expected to see him later tonight. She was likely just busy. Unlike him, having an entire staff at his beck and call, she ran her entire career herself, relying only on her agent and publicist to help her pull things together.
The woman wrote like a fiend, all hours of the day and night. The fact that he’d stolen thirty-six uninterrupted hours from her was a miracle. She was probably catching up on work or sleep.
She’d reach out eventually. Now that she had his number, she had no excuse.