Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
“Seems like a deep inventory,” Soren joked.
Greyson stretched and slammed the door in their faces. “Goodbye!”
Wren wilted into the shelves—death by mortification.
Grey only chuckled and continued on, stroking her back to life and not stopping until they discovered all the spice that pantry could offer.
When they returned to the den, Wren needed a drink. Jocelyn sidled up to her at the bar, smiling around the straw of some mulled concoction. “So… Come lately?”
“Please stop.”
“Can’t. It’s a sickness.”
It really was. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secrets safe with me. But can I just say how proud I am of you? Not only for getting it in public, but for holding that position while he covered your mouth.” She tipped her head and sauntered away. “Nicely done, my friend.”
Wren poured an oversized glass of wine and took it to the less judgmental atmosphere of the kitchen. Every inch of the marble countertops were covered with fresh herbs, cranberries, and copper pots as Astrid had now taken over the preparations.
“Can I help?”
“You can stir the gravy.” Astrid handed off the spoon. “Heard about your little holiday foray in the pantry.”
Wren stilled. “Who told you?”
“You know I have a sense for these things.” When Wren gave her a doubtful look, her aunt confessed, “Jocelyn. That girl’s lips are looser than tea leaves.”
Wren covered her face and groaned. “I told her not to say anything.”
“Sounds like you told her too late. Maybe by this time next year we’ll be celebrating a New Year’s baby.”
“No,” Wren laughed, but her hand stilled from stirring the gravy. It had been a few weeks now and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d… “What’s today’s date?”
“The eighteenth.”
“Oh, God.” Her eyes widened as she did quick math. She should be safe, but they should probably have a serious conversation about children soon. Would he mind if she got pregnant? It wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. She couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips.
Aunt Astrid nudged her hand. “Keep stirring.”
Once dinner was ready and the table was set, Wren moved the guests into the dining room. Greyson, of course, noticed a shift in her mood.
“You okay?” he asked quietly as they took their seats, squeezing her thigh, his eyes creasing with concern.
She smiled nervously. If she was late, it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. Just an unexpected one.
“I’m fine.” She pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Merry Christmas.”
Crystal rattled at the other end of the table as Magnus wobbled up from his chair.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Logan sprung to his feet.
His father shook off his support. “I can stand on my own damn feet.” He gripped the edge of the table with an unsteady hand, and pulled aside his oxygen mask and glared at his youngest. “I’m not dead yet.” Their father took several seconds to continue as he struggled to catch his breath. “It’s been a long time… since we...” He huffed as if coming off the last mile of a marathon. Defeated by his limitations, he gave up. Waving a hand in a way that showed no affection but some level of acceptance. He raised a crystal goblet and mumbled under his breath, “Merry Christmas.”
“Cheers.” They responded in unison.
Dishes were passed and the chatter continued. Wren smiled at the cheer emerging from the majority of the table, but never lost sight of Magnus’s moody tells.
Magnus lost interest in the food when his hand trembled too fast to control his fork. He tossed down the silverware with a clatter, and the chatter silenced.
“Dad?” Greyson asked, as everyone stared at the patriarch of the family.
Worry tightened Wren’s stomach. Magnus had too much pride to accept the help he needed, and she knew his vulnerability embarrassed him. All three sons watched their father with bleak concern, likely having the same thought.
Jocelyn, understanding her role as best friend, broke the silence and theatrically sampled the nut roast. “Sweet Oden, Bodhi, did you marinate this in despair?”
The table snapped out of its trance, and everyone laughed. Dishes clinked, and the happy chatter started again. Magnus merely sipped his wine after swatting away Logan’s hand when he tried to cut his meat.
Conversation rose in volume as chaotic conversation topics shifted faster than the seasons. Overall, it was exactly how a holiday dinner should be—over planned, under prepared, and mildly off balance.
Magnus scanned the faces around the table and stilled when his stare met Wren’s. His eyes narrowed.
“You okay, Dad?” Greyson sensed the moment she shrank in her seat.
His father called her Haven several times that day, and Wren wasn’t sure who he saw now.
Magnus’s glare snapped to the foot of the table where Greyson sat. “Where’s Sable?”
Again, the table stilled, and the conversation stopped.
Magnus’s cold gaze lifted past his son and his chin trembled. Everyone followed his stare except Wren, who kept her eyes on Magnus. His breath caught, and he abruptly dropped his gaze. “I’ve had enough.”