Page 195 of The Holiday Clause
Soren’s face scrunched. “How are you a bestselling author when no one ever knows what you’re talking about?”
“It means happy Yule, dumbass.” She thrust a covered dish forward. “Wren, where do you want this?”
Soren eyed the dish with suspicion. “Back at your house?”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny, Daddy Issues. Just wait until you have a taste.”
“What is it?” Wren lifted the foil, releasing an intriguing blend of sweet and savory aromas.
“Pork and apples—just like the Vikings ate.”
Soren rolled his eyes, picking sap from his nails with studied indifference.
Jocelyn pivoted and noticed Magnus for the first time. The volume of her voice cranked up to a controlled shout, “How are you feeling, Mr. Hawthorne?”
Magnus’s caterpillar brows collided as Wren grabbed Jocelyn’s arm, dragging her toward the kitchen. “He’s sick, not deaf, Joce.”
“Oh. My bad.”
Wren steered her toward the kitchen and added the dish to the growing collection of sides on the marble counter. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course. You know I always love to come.”
Wren shot her a warning look. As much as she adored Jocelyn’s unfiltered, colorful personality and inappropriate humor, today was about creating a healing, wholesome, holiday atmosphere, not a chaotic one. “Try not to fight with Soren today, okay? They’re going through a lot.”
“What are you talking about? I never fight with anyone.”
“Oh, please, you two are always bickering and at each other’s throats.”
“Seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “Just...behave.”
“I’m always behaved.” They held each other’s gaze for exactly two seconds before Jocelyn’s composure dissolved with snorting laughter. “All right. I’ll try to be a good girl.”
“Good would be a miracle. Just try not to fight with him. Come on. We can’t leave them unsupervised for too long.”
Magnus, in his monogrammed sweater, surveyed the chaos from his medical throne, micromanaging his sons. “You’re getting needles everywhere.”
“And joy, Dad. Don’t forget the joy.” Logan examined his sticky palms with disgust. “Hey, how do you get sap off?”
Magnus drew a breath from the oxygen mask. The blanket Wren gave him draped his knees with presidential dignity. “Try soap.”
Wren moved to the other side of the room, where Greyson surveyed the designated tree area. He seemed less tense, but still reserved whenever in his father’s presence. None of them chose to spend their day this way, but she hoped the forced merriment might help them face down their demons. Magnus was still an intimidating presence, but he seemed to be softening the longer his sons stuck around. At least she thought he was.
Grey’s arm hooked around her waist, pulling her against his solid warmth. Gentle breath teased her neck as he pressed a kiss to her pulse and whispered, “What do you think?”
She tilted her head back to study the bound giant. “It’s big.”
“I know. But what do you think about the tree?”
She swatted his chest. “You’re as bad as your brothers. Will you see if you can find a tree stand for it?”
“I’ll take a look.” His fingers traced the shoelace now wrapped around her wrist, their secret burning between them.
Their eyes met, and her smile bloomed. They hadn’t breathed a word about the proposal. With Magnus’s condition and the family drama, adding engagement news felt like throwing gasoline on a yule log. Besides, Greyson insisted on replacing the shoelace with a more traditionalsymbol of his love before they shared the news.
“Logan.” Greyson pointed toward the stairs. “Come on. We’re going into the attic to hunt a tree stand.”
