Page 142 of Going Viral for Christmas
My gaze slides toward the door, seeking an escape. I’m bracing for the catch. But instead of backing off, Soren steps even closer.
“If you’re waiting for the part where I disappear, you’re going to be waiting a long time, Bells.”
Folding my arms, I try to appear like I’m not hiding behind them. I’m failing miserably. “We agreed it was one night.”
“I remember,” he’s not even phased. “I also remember you crying out my name and falling asleep on top of me half naked, so let’s not pretend the agreement didn’t get a little…blurred.”
My chin drops. Soren lifts it with unfamiliar tenderness, but I don’t look at him.
“Ava Bell, you are one tough egg to crack.” His thumb brushes my jaw.
My attention then shifts to his handsome face and the thick shadow of facial hair that shouldnotbe this hot, but absolutely is. The scruff curves over his jawline, his top lip. It’s rakish, and I’m remembering the scrape of it brushing against my thighs.
“Mark my words.” His eyes lock on mine. “I will break you.”
Heart pounding against my ribs, I exhale.
Soren steps back. “Besides, I can’t go anywhere—we’re snowed in. Must’ve started somewhere betweenTwilightand your pussy swallowing my fingers.”
My mouth tumbles open. He did not just say that.
His lips twitch. “Whatever shall we do?”
A moment later, Soren’s setting the table as if he’s done it a hundred times before. Plates in one hand, thumb smoothing a wrinkle from the napkin. He moves with this unhurried, quiet confidence.
Forks aligned. Glasses filled. A small dish of butter next to the bread he warmed in the oven because “cold carbs are a crime.”
I sit there watching him, unsure what to do with the knot forming in my chest.
Does he do this for every woman he spends the night with?
Is this another trick up his well-stocked arsenal of charm?
Or is this something else?
He’s humming under his breath. He’s barefoot and comfortable. He’s still not wearing a shirt, and I don’t know if he even realizes it.
It’s messing with my head because I’ve had men light me on fire. But I’ve never had one set a table for me.
The thought is either terrifying or attractive. I haven’t decided yet.
When he finishes, the table is ridiculous. Scrambled eggs topped with herbs, thick-cut bacon, crispy hash browns, and actual homemade cinnamon rolls—from scratch—glazed and steaming. They smell amazing.
“You baked?” I eye the golden spirals like they’re going to vanish if I blink.
“I told you, I learned during lockdown. I’m a man of many talents.”Soren cuts out a cinnamon roll and winks. “You’ve only scratched the surface, Bells.”
“You mean kind of like how I?—”
His brows rise, daring me.
“—scratched your surface last night?”
Soren laughs, head tipped back with the grin that threatens to undo me. “Technically, I scratched yours. But yeah.”
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sound the crackle of the fire in the living room and the muffled hush of snow falling in thick, lazy sheets outside the window. Everything is soft. Delicate. A world suspended in white.
Sipping my coffee, I stare at him across the table over the rim of my mug. “So, are you this good at breakfast for all your fake dating stunts?”
