Page 78 of Going Viral for Christmas
To help ease the commotion, I whisper something funny in her ear. “Might want to fashion those tinfoil hats, Bells. This is the kind of battlefield training no one’s prepared for.”
She smiles, then suddenly straightens. “Oh God.”
“What?” I brace myself for her answer.
“Uncle Marty’s mixing a fall cocktail.”
“I call it the Gallows Gulp,” Uncle Marty calls out, hearing her. He waves us over to the side bar that resembles more of an apothecary than a drink station.
“What’s in them?” Ava asks, skeptical.
“It’s pumpkin-spiced tequila with a splash of ghost pepper vodka and a floating eyeball candy,” he says proudly.
Ava narrows her eyes at the swirling orange concoction. “Halloween is over.”
“It’sneverover in Salem.” Eyes twinkling, Uncle Marty grins. He adds a cinnamon stick with theatrical flair, then holds it out for me to take. “Witches don’t hang up their hats because the calendar flips. We marinate inspooky around here.”
I accept the glass, admiring how smoke billows out of the top. Ava snatches it out of my hand before I can take a sip.
“Absolutely not,” she says, shaking her head and placing the drink back on the countertop of the bar. “Learned my lesson last year when Marty’s drink made Fisher believe he could summon ravens.”
In that same moment, Fisher gets whisked away by the neighbor, June, for a tarot reading. He goes willingly, appearing mildly concerned yet intrigued.
And then the real showstopper arrives.
Who I can only assume is Ava’s grandmother struts into the room, wearing leopard-print leggings, has two rings on every finger, and wears a confidence that suggests she’s outlived at least three scandals and enjoyed every second of them, probably even started them. She’s holding a wine glass in one hand and her sweatshirt proudly proclaims in sparkly letters:GRANDMA KNOWS BEST, DON’T TEST.
“Ava!” The woman sets her wine glass down on the nearest perch and then cups her granddaughter’s face in both hands, squishing her cheeks like she’s still five. “You brought me a man who clearly doesn’t eat kale on purpose. That’s progress, sweetheart. Maybe I’ll live to see my great-grandbabies after all.”
“G-Ma, don’t start.”
I step forward. “Ma’am, I’m Soren.”
She eyes me like I’m a horse at auction. “Hmph. Good voice. Nice jaw. Decent hips. Strong thighs.”
“G-MA,” Ava grits out.
G-Ma ignores her. “The last man Ava brought home had wrists smaller than mine and thought mulch came from a can. You though? I bet you could split a stump by winkin’ at it.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the snort of laughter clawing its way up my throat. “I haven't tried. Maybe I should.”
G-Ma nudges Ava’s arm. “Big hands. That’s important. Gotta know if the stock is hardy before you plant the seed.” She waggles her gray brows. “This man could plow a field and still have enough stamina to churn the butter. If you catch my drift.”
Ava might die where she stands. I can’t stop laughing.
“You did good, Ava Bean.” G-Ma pats Ava’s cheek, then swivels herattention to me with laser focus. Before I can brace, she clamps my hand—shockingly strong—and yanks me forward.
I expect a sweet, grandmotherly hug. What I get is a rib-crushing tackle that knocks the air straight out of my lungs. My spine pops. My eyes water.
Her mouth is right by my ear when she growls, “You hurt her, I’ll break your legs.”
She squeezes once more for emphasis, and I’m ninety percent sure one of my ribs waves goodbye.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I won’t. I promise.”
“You’re a man who knows the value of a good woman.” She bops my nose. “Eat my heart out, why don’t you?”
I smile because I don’t know what else to do.
