Page 18 of Falling for the Enemy

“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.