Page 208 of Going Viral for Christmas
“You didnot.” My jaw drops.
“I did.” Soren pulls me in, hands on my waist, spinning me in slow circles.
Somewhere behind us, the speakers shift. The first haunting notes ofFlightless Bird, American Mouthfloat around us. My breath catches. It feels too perfect, too fated, as if the universe just pressed play on our love story.
“Care to dance, Miss Bell?”
“In a gazebo that’s a replica of theTwilightprom scene?”
“Only the best for my vampire lover.”
Laughing, we sway under the stars, the sounds of the countdown distant but rising.
As it nears midnight, I peer up at him. “You gonna turn me?”
Soren’s smile softens. “Already have, my love.” He dips me—a full swoon-worthy, leg-lifting dip—and presses a soft kiss to my neck. Just like Edward.
“Happy New Year,” he whispers. “Here’s to every chapter we haven’t written yet.”
When our lips meet at the stroke of twelve, it tastes like stardust and forever. I never expected this. Soren Pembry started as the enemy. A fantasy-reading, romance trope-hating, livestream-trolling nemesis with a body that belonged in a graphic novel.
I hated him.
Until I didn’t.
Until he chipped away at my walls with so much patience and fire that I had no choice but to let them burn.Thisman proved me wrong. He made me stronger. Softer. Whole in ways I didn’t believe I could be.
I let him in.
I let myself love him.
When he rights me from the dip, I smile and brush snowflakes off his collar. “I have a surprise for you too, Mr. Pembry.”
“Oh yeah?”
Rolling up on my tiptoes, I whisper my secret in his ear. Soren’s eyes go wide. His hands fly to his head. He spins in a frantic little circle. His body can’t contain the excitement.
“Are you serious?” he yells.
I grin, nod.
“Holy shit.Holy shit.” Soren clutches my head, kisses me again, passionately, as though we have a thousand New Year’s ahead of us.
Because we do.
Forty-Two
SOREN
Eight Months Later…
“Move, move, move!” I barrel through the hospital hallway like I’m leading a last-stand cavalry charge, minus the sword but definitely with the same panic level.
Matthew trails behind me, huffing, puffing, wrangling an overstuffed bear the size of a Fiat.
“I told you not to stop for coffee,” I hiss over my shoulder.
“I didn’t think she’d go into active labor during a red light!” he snaps. “Besides, she loves the new hazelnut roast.”
