Page 20 of Going Viral for Christmas
She said it with such fake sweetness, turning my whole persona into a punchline and smiling while the audience laughed along.
Maybe I deserved it. To her, I am the brand, personally providing her with ammunition almost daily online.
Still, hearing it live and in person hit different. Felt personal. She saw straight through the performance and aimed for the man beneath it.
Then I went and told her I’d read her book—the whole damn thing. The words just slipped out as if a part of me needed her to know I see her beyond the banter.
She startled, a faint flush crept up her neck, and for a moment, the room tilted on its axis. The noise, the lights, the people, all of it blurred until there was only her.
Ava Bell.
For all the fire and fight inside her, she wears a mask for thecrowd. A lot like someone else I know. I see it now. We’re two people pretending a little too well.
Whatever anger I’d been clinging to burned off in an instant. What replaced it wasn’t gentle—it was fierce, inevitable. A pull that starts in your chest and doesn’t stop until it’s carved your name into someone else’s heartbeat.
And damn me, Ava has certainly carved hers into mine, because I am so fucking gone for this woman.
After the panel, I’d planned on asking her to grab a drink. Nothing serious, just a ceasefire over something stronger than caffeine.
And if she said no? Fine. I’d fall back on my original plan: sit on my hotel balcony with a fall-spiced bourbon, pretending the quiet didn’t feel like punishment while prepping my breakout session for tomorrow.Why battle-mages with trust issues deserve cuddles too.
Catchy title. Tragic subtext.
What I didn’t plan on was being herded into my manager’s hotel room to hammer out the details of a fake dating scheme betweenThe BladeandThe Queen of Steam.
Her publicist paces the room while she and Camille deconstruct every angle of this PR stunt—equal parts absurd and genius. They talk numbers: follower metrics, engagement spikes, viral potential. On paper, it’s flawless. Strategic. A guaranteed visibility boost for both of us.
I, for one, love the idea.
Ava, however, clearly doesn’t. She’s sitting stiffly on the edge of an armchair, ready to jump out the window if someone says “holiday boyfriend” again.
This plan gives me the perfect excuse to orbit Ava Bell without anyone questioning my motives.
This isn’t a strategy.
It’s not a crush.
It’s bigger. Messier. Something more that doesn’t fit into neat, professional boxes.
“This is the stupidest idea ever.” Ava’s fingers keep drifting to the hem of her dress, tugging, smoothing,more tugging.
I wish she’d stop doing that. Every nervous pull hikes the fabric a little higher, and my focus a little lower. It’s torture in high definition.
Yeah, I should look away—be a gentleman, or at least pretend to be—but the truth is, I don’t want to. Those legs are toned, restless, impossible not to notice, and have officially rerouted my moral compass.
I force my eyes upward, to her face. My heart squeezes. Ava’s nervous. Guarded. Human in a way that doesn’t fit the image I built of her online. She’s not the clever nemesis I spar with for clicks—she’s layered, real, entirely herself. That combination does something to me I can’t disguise with arrogance or charm.
Because it’s notjusther body I want.
It’s herpages.
Her chaos.
Her order.
Her unapologetic logic and that soft, stubborn heart she tries so hard to tuck away.
I want to burrow under every one of those layers, especially the ones wrapped in cable-knit and hiding in plain sight.
