Page 150 of Going Viral for Christmas
“You want to go outside? Right now?”
Soren’s halfway to his feet, bare chest glowing in the firelight, resembling a cocky winter god,completely naked, big dick swinging, leading the charge into battle.
I’m torn between hysterical laughter and mild arousal. “You are not going out there likethat.”
A single brow raises, he’s utterly unfazed. “What? Afraid the snow’s gonna get jealous?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Get dressed, Steam Queen. You’re about to catch snow in the face from these metaphorical hands.”
“And you’re about to get absolutely transformed by snow affection.”
Half an hour later, we’re bundled up—sort of.
Soren doesn’t have clothes here, apart from the outfit he wore last night. Considering how thoroughly we spent the day making sure every layer of it was removed and discarded, it’s… less than ideal for a snowball fight.
He emerges from my bedroom, wearing a pair of my oversized joggers that are hilariously snug in the thighs, a too-tight hoodie with a pastel book quote across the chest that reads:My book boyfriends are better than real men—I regret nothing, and one of my puffer jackets thatalmostfits… if he doesn’t try to zip it.
Soren’s also wearing thick pink fuzzy socks stuffed into his boots, which he insists are “gender-neutral” despite the glitter trim and dangling pompoms.
He looks so silly. And doesn’t give two fucks while I’m doubled over as best I can in my snow suit, which mostly means I tilt forward like a bloated marshmallow with joint pain.
“You look like a homeless lady who somehow stumbled into a J. Crew catalog and mugged a toddler for accessories.”
Soren does a turn, modeling. “And yet, Iownit.”
“Can’t argue there.”
“My balls might freeze but my confidence shall remain intact,” he announces, slapping on a knit beanie with a sequined unicorn horn. “Let’s do this.”
Outside, the cold punches us in the face like a scorned ex. The snow is piled thick and powdery, the sky still flaking down in lazy spirals. The woods are wrapped in white silence.
Soren pauses long enough to peek at the driveway where his rented Bentley, now nothing more than a bougie snow mound with luxury tires peeking out from the bottom as a sad, expensive tombstone.
“Well,” he mutters, hands planted on his hips, “Guess I’m staying forever.”
Not sure I’d object to that.
Soren runs into the snow-covered yard and yells, “YOUR METAPHORIC INTIMACY IS ABOUT TO GET FUCKING PELTED, BELL!”
And then—he sinks.
Immediately.
The snow’s deeper than either of us probably realized, and his overly confident charge turns into a slow-motion collapse. He disappears thigh-deep with a strangled grunt.
“Help,” Soren calls out, arms flailing slightly. “I’ve been metaphorically and literally swallowed by intimacy.”
“Oh my God, are youstuck?”
“Emotionally, yes.”
I scoop snow into a perfect sphere, my aim locked in.
Soren’s too busy trying to extract himself from the snowdrift to notice. Arms flailing, jacket riding up, talking shit like he’s still winning.
Launching the snowball straight at Soren, it nails him in the face with a satisfyingsmack, and explodes in a spray of white across his features.
