Page 54 of Going Viral for Christmas
After, he picks up his drink, drains the cider, and shoots the cup into the nearest trash can. “You know, you’re not what I expected, Bells.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. More... glitter? You’ve got this whole sunshine-and-sweaters aesthetic, but underneath, you’re kinda terrifying.”
My face scrunches. “Um, thanks? I think.”
Soren grins. “It’s a compliment.”
The warmth of his words settles deep inside my chest. “I’m mad about that kiss,” I firmly say. “You didn’t give me a fair warning.”
“Sorry, not sorry.” Heat simmers beneath the humor. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
I blush. “I... It was unexpected.”
His smile curves, satisfied. “Not always a bad thing.”
“Still should’ve warned me.”
“Next time, I’ll give you a ten-second countdown.”
I’m smiling—dammit—and he sees it. His mouth opens as if he wants to say more, but he must decide against it, and he closes it instead.
What was he about to say? Was it weighted than banter? Something that could crack open whatever fragile truce we’ve built? Hopefully, it wasn’t anything that would tip us both too far into territory we can’t walk back from. Or at least from somewhereIcan’t.
“You two look good together,” a couple walking by says to us.
“I think so too,” Soren replies, sitting back against the bench where our shoulders brush.
I look away.
“You got cagey all of a sudden,” he mentions.
My body tenses. Soren rises and extends his hand. Against my better judgment, I place mine in his, and the moment our palms meet, he pulls me gently into his orbit.
Suddenly, we’re not Ava Bell and Soren Pembry, enemies turned marketing experiment. We’re two people standing together in the dark, both a little broken, both trying not to let anyone see it.
And I can’t help but hate him a little less now.
Ten
SOREN
It’s not the first time I’ve shared a suite with a woman. But it’s the first time the woman is Ava Bell—romance’s golden girl, my fake girlfriend, and the human embodiment of a soft sweater hiding a stick of dynamite.
The moment we step inside, she wants out, acting like we’ve just entered a cage, with her eyes darting to the corners, calculating exits, arms tucked tight across her chest as if they might physically hold her together. The space isn’t small. It’s one of those obnoxiously nice penthouse-style setups with a gas fireplace, modern edges, muted gold accents, and two bedrooms connected by a shared living space.
Her suitcase sits next to the leather bench by the door, a scarf draped over the side—one of those thick, romantic ones she wears on book promos.
I nod toward the bag. “Fisher?”
“Renata thought it’d be more seamless if my stuff were already here.”
Ava’s eyes continue surveying the area as she heads straight to the left bedroom. “I’m gonna rest,” she says without looking back.
“No problem,” I reply gently. “Need anything?”
Shaking her head, quick and quiet, she keeps moving toward the bedroom without another word, then disappears inside. The door clicks shut.
