Page 70 of Going Viral for Christmas
“It is,” I say. “It’s also loud and warm and weirdly comforting. And… you’ll love it.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another. And another. Is the room getting smaller?
Soren releases a measured exhale. “Alright. Only if I get to fashion a battle helmet out of tinfoil and whipped cream.”
“What?” I ask, confused. “Why?”
Straight faced, he says, “If I’m going to wade into the war zone of awkward family Thanksgiving’s with my genre nemesis, I need armor. And snacks. Hence, battle helmet.”
Laughing at that, relief bubbles up. “Okay. Deal. Just so you know…you’re very strange.”
The corners of his mouth curve, soft and genuine. And for a second, we sit there as two writers, two disasters, in a hotel room filled with stories and subtext, quiet and connected.
And–right now–it’s not pretending. Tomorrow…it will be though.
Soren leans back on his elbows, legs stretched out, expression thoughtful. “Since we’re making deals…” His voice trails off, debating whether to speak the next part aloud.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“There’s a scene I’ve been stuck on. For my current WIP.”
“Oh god. You’re not going to ask me to fact-check your sword names, are you? The last one I read sounded close to a venereal disease.”
He lifts a finger. “First of all,The Blade of Eternal Reckoningis iconic and you’ll regret mocking it when it wins a Goodreads award.”
“No one is giving your herpes sword an award, Pembry.”
Soren chuckles, then drags a hand over his face, suddenly a little more serious. “It’s not about the sword. It’s a scene. A…spicy one. I told you, my publisher wants more sex. It isn’t my strength. Not in print anyway. But now that I have the Queen of Steam here, maybe you could take a look?”
“Okaaaay?” I drag the word out.
“It’s…I—” His jaw flexes. “I’m not doing it justice. I can’t figure out how to make it read real. Right now, it sounds like a man trying to write a woman’s orgasm while overthinking what nipples do.”
I snort-laugh. “Do I want to know what you think they do?”
“Obviously, they’re dial knobs to an alternate universe.” He smirks. “Or at least that’s what my writing describes them as, currently.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Will you guide me?” he asks innocently, which only makes it worse. “Sensory language. What feels true. Realistic. Maybe read over what I’ve got so far and?—”
“Readit?”
He shrugs, oh-so-casual. “Unless you’d rather act it out.”
My brain breaks in seven places at once.
Soren grins, but there’s tension under it. He wasn’tentirelyjoking.
“You are—without question—the most infuriating man on this planet.”
“I’m trying to be accurate.” Soren stretches, not fully aware that his muscles ripple when he does. Or maybe he’s very much aware. He flexes.
Okay, yeah, he’s aware.
I’m suddenly wondering howaccuratehis spice really is.
Soren grabs his laptop off the desk, opens a document with an adorable tilt to his mouth.
