Page 162 of The Holiday Clause

“Shit.”

“I’ll get a mop.”

Greyson helped her down, and she swayed, a little off balance. She giggled as she wobbled down the hall, completely naked aside from her thick wool socks, her skin still flushed from their encounter.

“Careful.”

She returned a moment later with the mop, still gloriously bare. “Give me that.”

Rat peeked out of the bedroom to see if the noisy part was over and Wren scooped him up, her breasts pressing against his soft fur. There really was nothing sexier than seeing a naked Wren nuzzle his kitten.

When he cleaned up the mess, he closed the laundry closet. “I hate to rush you, but we’ve gotta get moving.”

Once dressed again, they secured Rat in the spare room with his litter box and some toys, then finished bundling up against the December cold.

“Do you have sunglasses? The wind off the coast will make your eyes tear.”

The thirty-minute entrance into the harbor on the vintage boat was something Greyson’s family orchestrated every year. He wanted a flawless trip since it was Wren’s first big voyage with him as the acting captain.

She slipped on a pair of aviators. “Think I’ll be warm enough?”

Even bundled up like an arctic explorer, she was freaking adorable. “You’ll easily be the hottest woman in Hideaway.”

She laughed and tossed him his keys. “Let’s go.”

Cruising through several stop signs and yellow traffic lights, Greyson made it to the fishery on time. Wren bounced nervously on the front seat of his truck where the makeshift cat bed for Rat usually sat. He didn’t understand why she was nervous, but he figured it just had to play itself out for her to see there was nothing to worry about.

The moment they got to the docks, her worry was distracted by the blustery winds rushing off the waves. It was too damn cold to think, let alone stress about anything other than delivering Larry theLobstahto the harbor and getting the hell back on land—preferably some place warm.

The bitter wind cut across the bay in sharp slices, gnawing at their exposed skin and rattling the frost-covered rigging like bones in a barrel. A boat in December waters might be unusual, but the Hawthorne fleet was not for pleasure cruises. These ships were industrial machines, meant for the toughest seas on earth.

“Wait.” He tugged Wren’s jacket tighter, inspecting that she was fully covered, his hands lingering possessively on the zipper. “Ready?”

He was excited to show her this side of his world, the maritime heritage that ran in his blood like saltwater. “Show me how it’s done, my rugged mountain fisherman.”

He kissed her but forced himself to cut it short. The temptation to take her again was real but he had a commitment to meet. “Your ass is mine the second we get home.”

“Silly man, I’m always yours.”

He growled like a caveman and took her gloved hand in his, tugging her toward the docks. His heavy footfalls clunked against the planks as he led the way to the antique ship, Sable Rose.

The ship was named for his mother. Unlike their other state-of-the-art vessels, this one held a special place in the heart of Hideaway Harbor. His father had donated it to the Locke Reserve after its last operational voyage nearly two decades ago. The town liked to bring it out for special events.

They kept a plaque at the Reserve where the boat usually stood on display to honor their family’s history and keep their mother’s memory alive. Every word of that plaque was burned into his memory from countless visits during his youth.

‘Named for Sable Hawthorne—fierce, graceful, and the heart of the Hawthorne family—this vessel carried three generations of fishermen before retiring into local legend. Now restored and preserved by Hideaway Harbor’s Locke Trust & Locke Reserve, The Sable Rose only sails for ceremonial journeys. In her lifetime, Sable never set foot on a boat, but this one still carries her name.’

Boats didn’t remind him of his mother, but they became his escape after she disappeared from his life. His world had shifted so dramatically after her passing that home didn’t carry the same warmth anymore. He traveled to the opposite ends of the earth in search of any place that did. It took him years to realize the love he was searching for was always waiting for him at home.

Glancing at Wren just as her scarf flapped from her collar and whipped in the wind, she smiled, and the wake inside of himsettled to a peaceful calm. She was his home, his North Star, his guiding light through any storm.

His breath came out in clouds as he yelled, “Warm enough?”

Nodding, she tried to project confidence, but it would get much colder once they left the dock.

He secured the rigging and readied the ship for her and the others to board. “Almost ready.”

The sea churned out the kind of cold that bit through denim and flannel, and clawed into muscle. The kind of cold that reminded a man he lived and breathed, but also had a way of making him wish he didn’t.