Page 182 of Going Viral for Christmas
I stare into my glass, then huff a breath. “Guess I have.”
“Besides,” he starts, clamping a hand on my shoulder with a mock-grimace, “have you metheragent. Fucking terrifying.”
Huffing a laugh, I grin. “Victoria?”
He nods, but his expression is full of some war crime PTSD. “That woman made me rewrite the contract three times, change the font to be ‘less aggressive,’ and sit through a three-hour Zoom where she compared your brand synergy to a layered trifle. And then—then—she made me role play as a toxic fan to test Ava’s publicist response time.”
“You’re kidding.”
Matthew’s eyes turn haunted. “She gave me a script. It had stage directions. I had to use an alias—Thornblade69—and argue that romance is ruining fantasy. I haven’t slept right since.”
Covering my mouth with a fist, I wheeze out a laugh. “Oh my God.”
“Laugh it up,” he muses. “That woman could out-strategize a CIA advisor while wearing fuzzy slippers and sipping a turmeric latte. I’d rather be drop-kicked into a live cobra pit than ever work with her again.”
Matthew’s posture straightens. His features—formerly amused—morph into an eerily unreadable expression, as though he’s spotted a mythical creature in the wild. One that he’s readextensivelyabout in my books, but now has to verify for himself. I don’t even have to turn around to know Ava’s there.
“Speak of the devil and she arrives in candy cane couture,” I say brightly.
“What? This old thing?” Ava teases, the silk catching the light as she steps up beside me, the dress clinging in all the ways it shouldn’t be legal to, her bare back a weapon all on its own. She holds out two glasses of red wine, cheeks flushed from her earlier pour. “Here.” She hands me a glass. “It’s either this or hot cider that smells like a Yankee Candle store exploded.”
Matthew steps in smoothly, extends a hand. “Ava Bell.”
Ava appears surprised by the confident greeting. “Hi.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” Matthew shakes her hand.
“All good, I hope.”
“Nothing but.” His finger taps on the rim of his glass. “But, you do know that I’m here to confirm if my best friend’s complete personality shift is warranted, right?”
Her brow lifts. “Personality shift?”
“Oh yeah. The man who used to drink bourbon for breakfast andmock emotional monologues is now quoting your paperbacks and baking muffins.”
Ava side-eyes me. “Cinnamon rolls, actually.”
With a chuckle, my head drops.
Matthew’s brow quirks. “Arewe still talking about baked goods or…”
Ava’s cheeks flush a suspicious shade of guilty.
“Let’s just say that frosting waseverywhere.”My lips press together while my arm snakes around her waist.
One of Matthew’s hands goes up, silently begging me to stop. “Nope. Nope. I’m tapping out. I did not come here to hear about Soren’s sticky buns being used in a biblical sense.”
Ava grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You brought up the muffins.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect it to be a Pillsbury-sponsored foreplay.” Matthew clears his throat, the sound resembling a benevolent threat. “Anyway. I’m here for the usual things—support, temperature gauging, and a vibe check.”
Ava’s arms cross. “So this is an interview?”
“Let’s call it… an informal review panel. I’m trying to understand the woman who managed to makethis guy”—he jerks a thumb toward me—“watch the Twilight saga and do a puzzle.”
Ava sips her wine. “He likes the Volturi drama.”
“I’m a man of taste.” I shrug.
