Page 94 of Going Viral for Christmas
What do I do with that?
My reflection offers no answers. Only flushedcheeks, glossy eyes, and the faint outline of a girl on the edge of a cliff she swore she’d never approach.
I press a hand to my chest. Beneath my skin, my pulse races way too fast.
I can tell your heart wants to leap out of your chest and into my mine.
He can’t be real.
He’s not supposed to be.
He’s not.
But he is. Flesh and bone, heat and heartbeat, steady where I spiral.
It takes me a few more minutes to get my shit together, and when I finally do, I head back downstairs, cheeks still warm, pride dangling by a thread.
The second my foot hits the bottom step, Mom peers up from the table with way too much interest. “Tummy issues, sweetheart?”
The room goes silent.
“What?”
Lowering her voice, she attempts to be discreet, but fails epically. “You were up there a while. I thought maybe your digestive system was acting up? You’ve always been sensitive to high-fat foods. Did you flush twice?”
I want to crawl into the breakfast casserole and disappear.
From that point on, every question my mother asks is one she’s never asked me. Not once. And even though she means well, even though Soren is fascinating and brilliant and charming—it still stings. This charade continues for what feels like forever, even though it’s probably only been a few minutes.
This isn’t breakfast anymore. It’s turned into a damn stage play starring Soren Pembry and featuring me as some poorly lit supporting cast.
I stab my eggs. My thigh bounces under the table, and Soren’s hand captures it—either a comfort or a flirt, I can’t tell anymore. That bothers me.
I allow it for the sake of the show. No dramatic flinching this time. I don't want another wide-eyed retreat. I’ve done that twice now.
His hand shifts. Higher. Fingers tracing at the edge of too intimate, too aware, too much.
Startled, I nearly knock over my juice, and his.
Fisher’s eyes zero in on me. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I side-eye Soren, who’s wearing a cocky fucking smirk.
And God, he’s beautiful. It’s wrong to look that arrogant and that delicious before nine a.m.
My mom whispers to Fisher, “Remember that video where he said her protagonist gave him ‘the slow burn of his life.’ I nearly died.”
Fisher swallows a bite of bacon, coughs once.
“Mom, we can still hear you.”
She waves a hand, totally unbothered.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I silently pray for a sinkhole. Or divine intervention.
Then Mom’s spine goes ramrod straight, which is a sign that areallybad idea has sparked in her brain. “Ava, why don’t you take Soren into town this afternoon? Show him the shops, the waterfront, that little bookstore you love. He’s flown all this way—he should see more than our dining room and your bedroom.”
I drop my fork.
