Page 64 of Falling for the Enemy

She scoffed. “Soren told me⁠—”

“I don’t care what he’s told you,” Jocelyn said, cutting her off. “Your desperate need to come over here and make some sort of bullshit claim told me everything I need to know.” She glanced down at her bare ring finger. “If Soren wanted you, he would have claimed you. Not the other way around. And he certainly wouldn’t have been in my bed this morning. Oh, you didn’t know that? Guess things aren’t as clear as you thought. But don’t worry, I’m done with him now. Or are you too good for leftovers.”

Her mouth gaped like a fish on dry land.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a show to run. Those of us below the bluff have to keep the town standing so the lords and ladies have something to look down on.” Her smile sharpened. “But you go right ahead mistaking altitude for importance. It’s a real charmer of a pitch.”

Head high, she brushed past the Wicked Bitch of the North, and went to reclaim her throne.

CHAPTER 8

“IT ALL KEEPS ADDING UP. I THINK I’M CRACKING UP.”

When her shift in town ended, Jocelyn felt like celebrating. Not because of the chili contest or how many scarecrow votes came in, but because there was a liberating victory in accepting one’s own craziness and letting that freak flag proudly fly.

Shalimar thought she could intimidate her with her beautiful hair and old-money poise. She totally underestimated how unhinged Jocelyn could get, and when that bitch flashed her sharpened manicured nails at her, Jocelyn showed her fangs, making it clear she was messing with a rabid bat-shit crazy townie who bites.

After she’d returned to her table, she told Wren what happened with the Shalimar Princess. Her loyal best friend took her side with absolutely no bias whatsoever.

“She said what?” Wren gaped, outraged that any outsider would claim to know what was best for her Hawthorne boys. “I’ve known Soren since birth, and I’ve never even heard of this woman! How meaningful could she be?”

The pregnancy was making Wren feisty, and Jocelyn liked it.

But before Wren grabbed her pitchfork and torch to storm the bluff, Jocelyn suggested they let the pettiness go and simply finish out the night at the Chowder House. Greyson wanted to see how the gambling pool was going, and Wren wanted onion rings, so it was a win-win. Jocelyn just wanted a drink.

Wren’s feet were still swollen at the end of Jocelyn’s shift, so they took the car and dropped Cordelia off at home on the way. Greyson walked ahead of them to put their order in.

It was no surprise that Logan was at their usual table when they arrived. But the moment she saw Soren, her mood deflated.

“We can go somewhere else,” Wren said, instantly reading her mood.

“No. It’s fine.” Their drinks and Wren’s onion rings were already on the table.

“Hey, guys,” Logan greeted, saluting them with a bottle of beer.

A wave of cheers floated across the bar. Football filled most of the screens, but one television was reserved for the tallies of the town contests, which were updated every thirty minutes.

“Who scored?” Wren asked.

“No one. Gus’s chili just tied with Ellen’s.” Logan pointed to the tallies. “It’s been neck and neck with those two all day. But Birdie’s still in the lead.”

Jocelyn climbed onto the stool beside Logan. “Ellen’s not going to be happy about that.”

Soren met her stare from across the table and gave a nod. “How was your day?”

“Fine.” She picked up a menu, blocking his view of her and breaking eye contact.

The second Logan finished his beer and excused himself to use the restroom, Soren stole his seat. “Hey. About this morning⁠—”

“Hmm, do I want mozzarella sticks or fish?” She ignored him and reviewed the menu, which she knew by heart.

“Get the fish. We can have that dinner together after all.”

She ignored him until he brushed a hand against her knee. Jerking her leg away, she hissed, “Don’t touch me.”

When the menu got boring, she folded it and pretended to watch the game.

Soren typed something into his phone.