Page 60 of The Holiday Clause
“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?”
“Right to the dick. It’s a wonder we’re best friends, being that you’ve lived the last thirty years without one.”
“Seriously. But that’s why I’m here.”
Jocelyn sat up. “Oh?”
“Times, they are a’changin’.”
Sudden interest sharpened her features. “Do tell.”
