Page 62 of Going Viral for Christmas
“Cheers.” I clink my glass against his anyway. “May our story die a noble death in the new year.”
A hand covers his heart. “You wound me. At least pretend all thissweeps you away.” His words are meant to be playful, but his eyes hold a hint of hurt behind them. Why though?
“Oh, I’m swept.” I tear a piece of bread off the loaf. “Mostly toward the lifeboats.”
Soren chuckles genuinely, and the sound burrows into my heart in a way I don’t appreciate. It’s nothing like the overproduced laugh he uses for fans during livestreams. This one he keeps hidden away from the general pubic. But not from me.
Again, why?
Our entrées arrive—expensive salmon, capers, and a vibrant garnish that looks like a small weed plucked from a sidewalk crack. I spear it with my fork. “I bet Camille Googled ‘romantic meals that photograph well’ before picking this.”
“She totally did,” Soren agrees, cutting into his salmon with infuriating calm. “We’re one rose petal away from a Nicholas Sparks novel.”
I snort laugh. “More like the parody version.”
He smiles at that, then wipes his mouth with his napkin. “So, are you planning to push me overboard before dessert?”
“I considered it. But you probably float. Too much hot air.”
Soren laughs, and that treacherous little flip my chest did earlier has traveled to my stomach. Not fair. Definitely not okay.
As the dinner wears on, the boat glides past the Lincoln Memorial, glowing in the night. Our reflection is in the glass, but it dissolves once the photographer’s camera snaps like a vulture in the distance.
I plaster on the fakest grin I can muster. Soren does the same. Our eyes meet, and for one split second, my smile isn’t fake at all.
Quickly looking away, I stab another piece of salmon.Fake. This is fake. He’s fake. I’m fake. We’re fake. Everything is fake.
Except my pulse doesn’t seem to believe any of that.
We finish dinner, drink the rest of our wine, and decide to head out onto the deck. The air is cold and biting when we step onto it, our breath fogging in little puffs that drift off over the black water.
Renata and Camille are nowhere in sight—probably inside strategizing how to caption our next “candid.” In the meantime, it’s just the two of us, leaning against the railing, the city sparkling in the distance.
“Romantic enough for you?” Soren asks, tugging his coat tighteraround him. His grin is a little crooked and a whole lot boyish. “All we’re missing is a boombox and John Cusack.”
I chuckle, hugging my own coat closer. “You’d probably pick the wrong song.”
“Not a chance. I have impeccable taste.”
“Please. You’d go full drama—Highway to Hellor something equally ridiculous.”
“Wrong.Careless Whisper.Every time.” He hums the tune until I roll my eyes.
Banter fills the space between us for a few minutes. We keep things safe and light. I ignore the wind as it catches strands of my hair, as well as how Soren subtly steps closer to block it. He’s being a gentleman, and that’s messing with me. Everything about him is.
I grip the railing tighter and decide to be bold with my own questions, like he is. “So, there’s still one thing about all this I don’t get.”
“What’s that?”
“The day we signed the contract, you said you were doing this for entertainment value. But you’ve got the whole internet drooling over you. You could fake date anyone. Or…real date them. You can get your kicks with anyone you want. Why me? I live a stale existence. And our ideas of fun are painfully different.”
His eyes lock on mine, unflinching. “That’s exactly why you’re perfect for me.”
My response is a short, disbelieving laugh. “Perfect?”
“Yes.” His voice sounds calm, but with a slightly rough edge. “My life stopped being mine the second one of my books hit big. Crowds, panels, livestreams. People don’t wantme,they want the Dagger Daddy.The Blade.The walking thirst trap that banters through everything.” He shakes his head once, presses his lips together. “But you? You don’t buy the act. You bulldoze right through it. You call me on my bullshit and don’t care if it makes me uncomfortable. You remind me I’m still a man, not just a persona. That’s not stale, Bells. That’s the only thing that feels real to me.”
Soren’s words settle in places I don’t want them to. And in this one fragile, terrifying second, I believe him. I think maybe he understands me, beyond our internet feud and our curated captions. He sees past thegirl who’s been stumbling through bad reviews and worse memories, and is looking at me, Ava Bell. The broken and fragile. The steadfast and strong.
