Page 109 of Going Viral for Christmas
Those caramel eyes dive straight into mine.
Fisher, blissfully unaware—or pretending to be—says, “Okay, I need to know. In this erotic novel of yours, Emily, is there a male lead?”
Emily taps her chin. “There could be.”
Fisher’s eyes drag over the professor. “Any chance this mysterious male lead has excellent taste in sequined shirts and is tragically single?”
“Where is he going with this?” I ask Ava.
Ava gives me a double take. “He’s obviously fishing to see if she’d be open...toswapping notes.”
“I thought he was gay?”
She smiles. “Fisher is a lover ofallpeople. Literally, figuratively, and physically.”
I nod, getting it now.
Emily takes a sip of her drink. “Nice try, Casanova. This research is strictly academic... unless you’re volunteering for a case study.”
“Where do I sign?” Fisher asks.
Emily smirks. “We’ll talk, Fisher.”
“Fabulous.” Fisher raises his glass. “To erotic fiction, found family, and men who can wield an axe.”
We all clink glasses.
And while the drinks flow, the teasing continues, and Emily begins describing the very detailed arc of her bisexual main character with boundary issues, I keep watching Ava.
She’s glowing. Laughing. Relaxed. I haven’t seen this before. But I’d throw a hundred more axes if it meant keeping her this close, this soft, this unguarded.
If it meant getting her to let me in.
Fisher offers his arm. “Shall we dance, Professor?”
She slides her arm through his with a grin. “Only if you promise to spin me.”
As they make their way toward the open dance floor, Ava drapes herself over the table in the seat beside me, her smile turning a little lazy. The drinks have dulled her edges, and the night is closing around us.
My fingers skim along the hem of her sleeve. “You want to dance?”
“No.” Her head turns, gaze skimming across my chest, up my throat, like her eyes are trying to decide where to land. The drinks have her loose, soaking me in as though I’m the next round.“I want you to show me how to throw.”
Yeah, sure she does.
Except the way those autumn eyes are trailing over me, lips parted,pupils blown wide, tells me this isn’t about throwing axes. There’s heat simmering inside her. And that has nothing to do with aim or technique and everything to do with the space between us.
“Deal.” I hold out my hand.
She takes it. We step toward the lane, music thumping behind us. I grab an axe and offer it to Ava, fingers purposely grazing hers.
Uncertain, she shifts her weight, trying to appear nonchalant as I move close behind her, so that my breath skates down her neck. Also, on purpose.
“Feet shoulder-width apart,” I instruct. “Hands firm on the grip. Let your shoulders stay loose.”
“Like this?” she asks, adjusting her stance.
“Almost.” I reach around her, guiding her arms into place.
