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)
“Thanks.” As the town apothecary, nothing surpassed one of Astrid’s freshly ground teas.
“Too long since I’ve read your tea leaves, Wren. Maybe we should brew a cup now.”
“I can’t. I promised Jocelyn a visit this morning.”
“How is Hideaway’s bestselling author? I devoured her latest series. Who knew I harbored such an appetite for Viking smut?”
“Viking smut, you say?” Bodhi raised an eyebrow with genuine curiosity as he sipped his tea. Her father devoured anything printed, but she wasn’t sure Viking smut was up his alley.
“Devastatingly sexy,” Astrid informed him with a knowing nod. “Magnificent braids and you wouldn’t believe the size of the Vikings—”
“Weapons,” Wren interrupted, shooting her aunt a warning look.
Experience taught her to derail such conversations before they careened off track. Other guests lingered nearby and Viking anatomy didn’t really match The Haven’s aesthetic.
“Maybe you should support your friend by reading more of her books, Wren. You seem rather tightly wound this morning. How long since you’ve indulged in proper self-care? And I’m not referring to manicures or yoga.”
“On that note, I’m departing. Thank you for the tea.” She kissed her aunt, then her father, breathing in the familiar scent of spices and contentment that always surrounded him. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
She escaped The Haven before business could sidetrack her. Jocelyn wasn’t expecting a visit, but Wren needed advice, and Jocelyn had a knack for getting right to the point on matters of the heart—sort of the way a sledgehammer reveals the inner workings of a delicate egg.
When she knocked on her friend’s door, Jocelyn’s voice echoed from deep inside the house, muffled by walls and creative chaos. “Go away.”
“Joce, it’s me.”
“Me who?”
“Wren.”
She waited in silence until the door opened a crack and her friend peeked at her with a messy head of hair three times its usual size, mascara smudged beneath tired eyes. “Did you bring snacks?”
As their custom demanded—sort of like a toll one had to pay to interrupt Jocelyn’s writing time—Wren held up a box of donuts from Making Woopie, the local bakery.
Her friend snatched the box out of her hand and left the door open.
On writing days, Jocelyn had a very specific wardrobe ritual—silk against skin, freedom from constraints, everything designed for creative flow. She wore either kaftans or kimonos and very little underneath. She didn’t like to be disturbed by bras or people, and she preferred not to break her focus for meals. She did, however, have a soft spot for coffee, booze, and sweets. It was common knowledge that any beverage in Jocelyn’s hand after eleven a.m. was adequately spiked, which she claimed helped to keep her romances extra spicy.
“I thought you’d be heading into town to set up for your fundraiser tonight.”
Jocelyn grunted over a sugary bite as she walked, crumbs trailing behind her like literary breadcrumbs. “I wanted to get a few words in first. Besides, that doesn’t start until later. Plenty of time.”
Wren gave her a skeptical look. “Did you delegate?”
“Of course, I did. You know I’m too pretty to do the heavy lifting. So, what brings you by?”
They sat on the sectional in the living room, and Wren pulled a cozy blanket onto her lap, needing the comfort of soft fabric against her skin. “I have a problem.”
“You think you have problems? I’ve got two characters who can’t stop fucking. I mean, it’ll sell, but the plot’s been nothing but blowjobs and buttfucking since chapter two. My agent’s going to hate it. Ooh!” She grabbed for a second donut, tossing her already half-eaten one back into the box. “I love a Boston crème!”
“My problems are a little more PG than buttfucking and blowjobs.”
“Pity.” She sat back and closed her eyes over a bite of the cream filled donut, moaning with theatrical appreciation. “So, what’s got your panties in a bunch? You can’t figure out what to wear tonight to my fabulous auction of man meat?”
Wren sank a little. “You know that’s not my thing—“
“Nope.” She cut her off with a finger wag, powdered sugar dusting her silk sleeve. “I’m your thing. As my official BFF, your attendance is mandatory. You can show your emotional support by buying a donated book or bidding on a hot item to support my fundraising endeavors. Be a good citizen, Wren.”
“I am a good citizen.”
“Then be a hornier one. It might do you good to bid on a hottie for a night. Clear out some of those coochie cobwebs you’re so fond of collecting.”
“My coochie does not have cobwebs!”
“Really? When’s the last time a guy’s been in there to…dust?”
“I handle my own damn dusting.”
“That’s not the same.”
Wren rolled her eyes and mumbled, “You’d be surprised.”
“So, let’s hear it.” She took another bite into the donut and moaned with exaggerated pleasure. “Did someone piss in your lube and call it foreplay?”
“Dear God, where does your head go?”