Page 123 of Going Viral for Christmas
The moment she slides into it, wrapped in winter and wonder, cheeks pink from the cold, I want her to feel like the queen she’ll never admit she is.
About thirty minutes and a couple of stops later, I park at the base of Ava’s rocky drive, step out, and lean against the driver’s side door with a thermos in hand—caramel blondie latte extra hot. Her favorite. She notices the little things, even when she pretends not to. So do I.
Ava appears on the porch, resembling a wary cat—poised, curious, and utterly unimpressed.
“You’re late.” She folds her arms. She’s in a long camel-colored coat,scarf wrapped once around her neck, hair down and slightly curled. Adorable. Gorgeous. Completely unaware of how kissable she looks.
“I was busy seducing your favorite barista,” I reply, holding up the thermos as a peace offering.
That gets a smile. Small, reluctant, but there.
She rounds the car to the passenger side. I follow her and quickly open her door before she gets a chance to.
Ava eyes me warily as she slides into the passenger seat. I hand her the thermos. She sniffs the drink before taking a sip. “If this is poisoned, it’s a very Ava-specific way to go.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” I shut the door and rush to get inside, to be closer to her, but there’s a wide console separating us. Who picked this car?
“No—ye of sketchy track record,” she says once I click my seatbelt.
I laugh, yank the car into drive, then pull onto the road, tires crunching over frostbitten gravel. “You wound me. I’m a changed man.”
“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”
“I’d believe it.” I sneak a peek at her. “You’ve got the stare. Regal and slightly terrifying.”
She chuckles into the thermos. The faint tug of her lips tells me she’s trying not to love this. Or to likeme.So, I must be doing something right.
The ride is quiet after that, but not uncomfortable. Her fingers tap against the thermos. Mine rest loose on the steering wheel.
Once we’re in the city, she watches it glide by, lights reflecting across the windshield like falling stars.
“Where are we going?” Ava asks.
“You’ll see.” I pull up to the small brick building tucked between a florist and an indie cinema, she frowns, curious.
“This isn’t dinner,” she says.
“Correct.” I hop out and jog around to open her door before she can argue. “It’s better than dinner.”
Inside, the smell of sawdust and aged paper hits us. The gallery is dimly lit, intimate. A woman with black marble glasses and a clipboard gives us a nod and slips away—she knows not to hover.
Ava stops short in the main hall.
Bookartinspired by, well, books. The exhibit displays massive canvases splashed with quotes and character sketches, sculpture installations of iconic romantic moments carved in stone and light. There’s one piece made entirely of burned paperbacks, forming the silhouette of two lovers kissing through ash. Another has typewritten love letters suspended in glass.
Ava moves cautiously, seemingly afraid that if she breathes too loudly, it’ll all vanish. “How did you…” Her voice trails off.
“I called in a favor,” I say behind her. “Private showing. Thought maybe you’d like?—”
“Love it,” she whispers at the same time, turning to me with wide, doughy eyes. “Soren… this is unreal.”
She drifts from piece to piece, murmuring titles under her breath, fingers hovering, just shy of touching.Jane Eyre,Normal People,The Secret History,Persuasion,The Great Gatsby—I know her reading tastes better than my own heartbeat by now.
I get a little giddy myself when I seeThe Princess BrideandA Court of Thorns and Roses.
When she reaches the wall covered in framed first pages—typewriter-font manuscripts mounted as museum pieces—her eyes shine. She turns to look at me then, and I hope to God she sees past all the jokes and banter and the stupid viral videos—to something solid. Something honest. Me.
This is who I’ve been trying to show her all along.
