Renna Rose Lancaster never searched for love.
She stumbled into it long before she was old enough to know what to call it.
It lived inside flower crowns that barely survived a minute on his head. Pebbles he slipped into her pockets because every tre...
"When you meet the other half of your soul, you'll understand why it didn't work out with anyone else."
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The car stereo spat static before the voice came through—some overly dramatic bloke rolling his r's like he was auditioning to be Thor's angry cousin.
"And if ye think ye've got the grit to face the ancient fury of the Northmen, come doon to the Ayrshire Viking Festival this weekend. Blood. Mead. Honour. Let the saga begin."
Drums kicked in under it, heavy enough that my steering wheel was vibrating, and for a second it felt like the car itself had been drafted into a longship headed for war.
"Bit much for some blokes in costume," I muttered, flicking the indicator and merging onto the A77.
From the passenger seat, Renna hummed low around her straw, slurping from a juice box she insisted on buying like some overgrown toddler.
She had her head leaned against the window, like she was halfway to slipping into a daydream, except—her legs were very much not dreaming. They were sprawled across my lap like she owned the space. Bare thighs golden under the sunlight pouring through the windshield, the mini skirt of her co-ord doing absolutely zero to be modest about it.
It was soft yellow crochet two-piece, hugging her in all the ways that made me want to pull over and forget the damn festival. The top puffed at her shoulders, sleeves barely clinging to her upper arms. And her skirt... it rode up every time she shifted, split open on one side just enough to flash a wicked little triangle of golden lace underneath.
Yeah. That triangle. The hot, cushy, and completely off-limits triangle unless she decided otherwise.
Girl knew I could see it. Hell, she was positioning so I could.
"You they'll they'll have real Vikings?" she asked suddenly. "Like the proper kind—scars, furs, deep voices, axes strapped across their backs..."
I kept my eyes on the road. "Sure. Probably rock up on direwolves too."
She smiled like I'd just confirmed her dream. "Mmm. Seven foot at least. Big hands. Barely speak, just grunt and—" she paused, biting her lips, "—conquer."
Right. That's what we're doing today.
"You alright there, Lancaster?" I muttered, one brow raised. "Need me to crack a window? You're starting to steam up the place."
"I'm just saying..." She stretched languidly, hands above her head until her top lifted enough to show the curve of underboob. "You wouldn't last five seconds in a duel with one of them."
