Page 19 of Falling for the Enemy

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.”

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?”