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)
“Ugh, I sort of hoped this could be a discreet transaction.”
If Wren publicly bid on Soren, the town would assume something was going on between them. Which it sort of was. But not really. It was a delicate balance, and they didn’t need meddlers to add pressure to the situation. “I’m so fucked.”
“You don’t have to save him, Wren. Soren’s a big boy. He’ll figure it out.”
She debated, unsure if she would rescue him from a mystery date or let him take the fall. She decided to play it by ear. “Honestly, I’m not sure I have the stamina to face off with these women.”
Jocelyn grinned proudly. “They’re a voracious bunch, but that’s why I love them.” She looked at her smartwatch. “Oh, shit, that’s Lola. It’s time to start the show. I gotta go.”
“Good luck!”
Jocelyn raced to the stage, grabbing a glitter-covered, horned Viking helmet from Lola on the way. Wren laughed and rolled her eyes when she noticed more naughty ornaments hanging from each horn. With her thigh-high boots and ruby red corset, she looked like a bedazzled concubine from the Middle Ages waiting for a possessive Norse god to take her away.
She took the stage and yelled into the microphone. “Are we ready to have some fun, ladies?”
The women cheered and hollered. One even whistled like a conductor.
“That’s what I like to hear! Loosen those corsets and lower your inhibitions. It’s time to raise some funds for a great cause!”
More wild cheers.
“My fellow lovers of questionable decisions and throbbing plotlines,” Jocelyn said, expression sobering and tone shifting into satirical deadpan as if announcing a humanitarian disaster. “We gathered tonight, not just for a good time, though let’s be honest, several of you are already halfway there, but because there exists a crisis in Hideaway Harbor. A quiet, devastating, deeply unsexy crisis. Our local library’s romance section is growing, and all those glistening, shirtless men on the shelves need a bigger home. We must find them shelter by adding additional shelves in the new wing your charity supports tonight.”
The women gasped as if clutching their invisible pearls, then booed.
“I know. I know. Don’t even get me started on the surge of homeless Vikings,” Jocelyn continued. “How are we, as a community, supposed to raise empowered, well-read, emotionally intelligent, and sexually satisfied women if they can’t access the books guaranteed to get them off? They deserve more than fade-to-black-off-the-page romance, and to make that happen we need more shelves!”
“Save the shirtless cover models!” one woman yelled.
“New bookshelves! New bookshelves!” a rowdy horde at the back table chanted.
“Give us more man chest!”
“And more Viking kidnappings!”
Jocelyn nodded with great aplomb. “The youth deserve better. We deserve better.”
“I wanna be tied up by a pirate!” someone screamed, and Lola made a slashing gesture across her neck, signaling to the bartender that the woman was flagged.
“So tonight, my darling romance readers, I ask you to bid as high as your standards, drink deeply, and give generously. Now, let’s support those book stacks and admire some six-packs.” She raised her drink and shouted, “Send out the men!”
The crowd went wild as festive music blasted from the speakers. A parade of holiday-themed men strutted onto the stage, but she didn’t see Soren.
Wren reviewed the program. He was number twelve on the list. The last bachelor on the block. And he was probably trying to wiggle his ass out of a bathroom window at the moment.
The first few bachelors brought their holiday spirit. One wore a glittery red bowtie, and another wore a black tux. One even came out topless with a red nose and reindeer antlers. The audience went nuts, jumping to their feet and shouting wildly whenever they got a muscle flex or little dance from the men.
As an MC, Jocelyn was perfect. Her unfiltered, inappropriate humor kept the crowd engaged and anxious to start the bidding.
“You can trim my Christmas tree!”
“Let’s see those Yule logs!”
Wren never saw anything like it. She wondered how much alcohol the bartenders put in the drinks.
“I got your ho, ho, ho right here!”
The whole thing was a sexual harassment case waiting to happen. It was probably good Hideaway Harbor didn’t have an HR department that Wren knew of.
When she finally spotted Soren, he looked terrified, like cornered prey. Rather than strut onto the stage like the rest of them, he reluctantly shuffled onto the platform, his hands buried in his pockets and his shoulders rounded protectively.
Wren snorted into her spiced cider. He wasn’t dressed like the others. There was nothing festive about his dark jeans and black corded designer sweater.
“Meet Soren Hawthorne,” Jocelyn announced, waving him onto the catwalk. “He’s broody and moody, but he knows how to use a rope—both nautically and recreationally.”
He looked absolutely terrified. The women acted like they’d never seen men before.
Soren scanned the audience, squinting through the blinding stage lights. When he finally spotted Wren at the bar, he dropped his head back and visibly sighed in relief.