12. “Should I StayShould I Go?” #3
She shifted, trying to relieve some of the flutters in her stomach, but they just kept coming. “Okay, stop it.”
Wren laughed. “I’ve never seen you like this over a guy.”
Jocelyn gagged. “I know. I’m losing respect for myself by the minute.”
“Why? There’s nothing wrong with falling in—”
“Wren!” She shot her a silencing look. “For the love of Oden, stop with that.”
With an evil snicker, her friend stood. “I’ll let you two get back to whatever you were doing.” She stole one last whoopie pie for the road. “Don’t forget your safe words.”
“I don’t have any safe words.”
“I was more suggesting one for Soren.”
Jocelyn laughed.
“I’ll go out the back.” She opened the door and yelled. “Bye, Soren.”
“Bye, Wren.”
Her eyes met Jocelyn’s, and she smiled. “Try to let yourself enjoy this, Joce. It’s a good thing.”
She sighed. “Goodbye.”
Once alone in the kitchen, Jocelyn dropped her head to the counter and groaned. She didn’t lift her head when she heard him hover by the kitchen door.
“You good?” He softly massaged her shoulder.
“Fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Because…it sounded like…” His voice shifted into a sing-song pitch. “You think I’m sexy.” She swung a hand at him, and he jumped back with a laugh, continuing to sing. “You really like me.”
She groaned. “I knew you were listening.”
He cautiously approached and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Of course, I was. How else am I supposed to know what you’re feeling? You have the communication skills of a locked door and the emotional availability of a witness in protective custody.”
She flung the other half of her whoopie pie at him, and he ducked. “Now you’ll have to clean that up.”
“I’m gonna leave it. Just to make you twitch.”
“Fine, but it’s chocolate and Cordelia’s probably going to eat it.”
“Oh, I’m Soren. I’ve got an answer for everything.” She pushed him out of her way and grabbed a paper towel.
When she threw the smashed whoopie pie in the trash, he stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his lips to the back of her head. “You know I really like you, too.”
Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she turned and looked at him. This man had breached her inner sanctum, planted his flag in her heart, pillaged her insides, and shifted something inside of her she couldn’t seem to put back. She used to be hard and tough. Now, she was a fluttering pile of mush.
“You’re a real problem, you know that?”
He laughed. “Well, I’m your problem. And you’re mine. Get dressed. I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Dinner? In the public? With the people?”
“Yes, dinner.”
Were they actually doing this? Her heart pinched in a not-so-unpleasant way. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had taken her on a real date. “Dressy or casual?”
“Whatever you wear will be fine.”
He really needed to stop saying things like that. Her wardrobe wasn’t refined like his, and if he didn’t give her some sort of guidance, she’d wind up embarrassing him.
“I need a shower.”
“Take as much time as you need.”
There he went again, with more of that niceness.
She left him downstairs with Cordelia while she took a quick rinse. The two of them were working on their trust issues. Cordelia preferred to sit on Soren’s lap, which he thought was a show of trust, but really it was stage one in chihuahua domination.
Wedging her head under his hand was stage two—grooming a human servant. If he stopped petting her, she’d growl, and if he stood, she’d bark. Soren was quickly learning to keep a hand on Cordelia at all times, and Cordelia was learning he wasn’t so bad to have around after all.
Dressed in a simple black dress, a burnt orange pashmina, and her favorite black boots, she returned downstairs to find the two cozied up on the couch. Soren’s stare dragged slowly from the heels of her boots to her eyes, his gaze caressing every inch in between.
“Wow. You look great.” He nudged Cordelia off his lap and stood. She immediately barked.
“Deelie, hush.”
He crossed the room slowly, not stopping until he kissed her. “Mm, maybe we eat in instead, and I keep you all for myself. You look too good to share with others.”
“No way. You promised me dinner, and I plan to eat.” She checked her clutch to make sure she had enough cash and some extra lip gloss for the night. “Where are you taking me?”
He couldn’t keep his hands off of her. And she was pretty sure he was sporting a semi. “I’d like to take you to bed.”
“Soren.”
His fingers trailed down her arms, encircling her wrists. “There’s a place just outside of Hideaway Bay called the Gilded Heron. I just have to stop home and check on King. He was with the dog sitter all day, but she left a couple hours ago.”
“You hired a dog-sitter?”
“Of course. He’s only three.”
His concern was sweet.
As they left the house, he took her key out of her hand to lock the door for her. They walked to his car, and he helped her inside. He even buckled her seatbelt.
She laughed nervously, unused to others doing such things for her.
“What’s funny?”
“You. I can do that myself, you know.”
He shrugged. “I like taking care of you.”
Those were very dangerous words.
They drove to his house, and she waited in the car while he ran in to check on the dog. When he returned, he looked refreshed. He’d changed his suit jacket and restyled his hair.
“Did you shave?”
“I touched up.”
She told herself his effort was the result of being a control freak, but her heart wasn’t so sure, and as it suffered another little pinch, she found herself hiding a smile.
The Gilded Heron was an old, converted captain’s house on the water. From the outside, it was a rustic fortress. Inside, it was a romantic hideaway.
Warm, low light separated shadows into secret corners, and white linen draped the tables, each one widely spaced so conversations could remain private.
Candlelight flickered from brass sconces, and fires crackled softly in various hearths throughout the old home.
Antique paintings reflected in a dark wall of windows facing the harbor.
“Mr. Hawthorne, welcome back.” Soren was greeted like royalty and presented with not only the best table, the best view, but also his own private menu, handwritten by the chef just for him.
Jocelyn had never seen anything like it. “How did they know you were coming?”
“I called when you were in the shower.”
“What if I’d worn jeans?”
“Then you’d be sitting here in jeans.”
She loved how unbothered he was by the possibility.
And why should he be? He was Soren Hawthorne.
Not the Soren Hawthorne she grew up with, but the Soren Hawthorne the outside world dealt with, the one who ran a billion-dollar company and influenced the stock market every day before most people even had their coffee.
Once the ma?tre d’ seated them, a waiter filled their glasses and suggested a wine based on the chef’s recommendation. The service was unhurried, and every reveal from the wine tasting to the hors d’oeuvres was a choreographed production.
“I guess I finally get to experience what all the other girls had.”
He eyed her cautiously. “Which is?”
“You, on a date.” Her eyes creased as she sipped her wine. “I expect to get your best moves tonight.”
“I don’t have moves.”
“Bullshit. All of this is a move.”
He reached for her hand, brushing his fingers softly over hers. “Did you ever consider I might just enjoy spending time with you?”
“No.”
He laughed. “Well, I do. And the food here is spectacular.”
Considering they started with oysters drenched in a champagne beurre blanc and caviar, she had to believe him.
“Since this is a real date, you have to tell me something about yourself,” she explained.
“You know everything.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me a secret. Something juicy and personal no one else knows.”
He considered her request over a slow sip of wine. She wasn’t sure if he would share something real or give her something safe and superficial.
When he set down his glass, his gaze turned distant as if reaching for some far-away memory, then he nodded.
“I wrote my father a letter when I was little, about a year after my mom died. Took me three days. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember my hand shaking as I put it on his desk.
He never mentioned it. I found it in his study after he died—still sealed, unopened. ”
A cold chill spread through her chest. “He didn’t read it?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
But it did. It mattered that a little boy wanted his father to know something so badly that he took the time to write it down, even when it scared him.
Jocelyn had only ever had one conversation with Magnus Hawthorne. It was at the end, but even in a withered state of demise, he’d been an intimidating presence.
Before he died, he told his sons exactly how he felt about them. It had been Christmas, and in front of others. They had no choice but to hear his final grievances, and now they would carry the memory of his cruel words forever.
Her hand folded around his. “Your father was a coward, Soren.”
He let out a breath and met her gaze. “I know.”
The truth had a way of shifting energy. Sometimes it was so heavy the air itself became laden with the weight of bearing such reality. Sometimes, painful truths were heavier than gravity.
“What are your parents like?” he asked, and for the first time it occurred to her that this was a part of her life that he knew nothing about.
She drew in a long, galvanizing breath, her lungs filling every depth of her chest as she pulled her hands free, folding them tightly on her lap. “They’re regular people.”
A small V formed between his brows. “What does that mean?”
“My mom always wanted a simple life, which was why we moved to Hideaway Bay. She has a thing for small towns.” She shrugged. “Tight communities.”
“And your dad?”
“He…does whatever makes her happy.”
“Are you close?”
“No.”
“Do you—”
“I really don’t like talking about them.”
He didn’t push, but he also didn’t offer any indication that her discomfort was enough to end the conversation.