Page 22 of Going Viral for Christmas
Or maybe an epilogue.
One I haven't written yet.
“You’re right, I don’t need the numbers,” I say, rubbing my thumb back and forth over chin. “But tell me, Bells—when else am I going to get the chance to fake-date the romance author who claims she hates me? That’s fun waiting to happen.”
Camille’s attention shifts to Ava. “It’s two months. Max. In January, we end it. A joint statement. Focus on writing. Blah blah, creative growth. Everyone moves on.”
“Two months,” Ava repeats, voice brittle. “Of pretending we’re dating. In public.”
“In matching outfits,” Renata adds with zero remorse.
Ava groans. She gets up and walks over to the mini bar, snatches a tiny bottle of whiskey and takes a sip. Based on the face she just made, it’s not strong enough to process what’s happening.
“We should set some ground rules,” I offer.
“Ground rules?” Ava asks, her brow furrowed in that adorable way she gets when she’s still working everything out in that whip-smart, controlling head of hers.
“Sure. That way you don’t accidentally stab me with a candy cane at the Snowflake Gala when I try to put my arm around you.”
Camille, ever the opportunist, steps in. “Boundaries are good. Let’s make a list.”
“No sharing a room,” Ava replies immediately.
“Actually…” I clear my throat, eyes flicking over at our managers for a brief second. “If we’re trying to make this believable, wouldn’t it be weird if we didn’t share a room at least once? Or dare I say, thrice.”
Ava whips her head toward me, her expression full of disgust. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s not like I suggested we film a sex tape and leak it on ShelfSpace.” I drag two fingers slowly down my jaw, skimming the edge of my beard with mock thoughtfulness. “I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to the sex tape—strictly for realism, of course.”
Before Ava can protest, I hold up a hand. “It would be for optics. We’re supposed to be a couple. If anyone finds out we’re not staying together—at some point—it’ll kill the illusion before it starts.”
Silence follows, settling heavy in my chest.
Camille and Renata both glance at each other but say nothing, clearly crossing every PR-obsessed finger they have that Ava might actually agree to this.
I won’t lie—I’m crossing mine too.
“No weird touching,” she finally says.
“And your definition of weird would be…”
She shoots me a glare. “No touching unless it’s for the camera. And even then, I pick the pose.”
“Understood. No unsanctioned snuggling.”
Renata scrolls through her tablet. “We’ll need a few public moments that suggest intimacy—breakfasts, post-panel hangouts, maybe a cozy bookstore date. Let’s make it swoony, and memorable.”
Ava glares at her for a long while. “I don’t understand.”
Camille cuts in. “A date. Low-key. Paparazzi bait without being obvious that it’s paparazzi bait. Coffee shop window seats and a shared pastry. It’s about the illusion of closeness without forcing it.”
Ava sneers. Shakes her head at me. “You’re enjoying this entirely too much.”
“Can you blame me? If pretending to be your boyfriend comes with flannel sheets and strategic cuddling, sign me up. I’m only trying to be thorough in my role.”
Ava stares down at the glass in her hand, quiet. Her brow furrows again. This time, I don’t see irritation or confusion. She’s thinking, turning it over, weighing the options, treating this as if it's a negotiation for her soul. I hate that for her. But I also, very much, want to do this.
So I nudge a little.
