Page 103 of Going Viral for Christmas
The thought gives me pause. My lips press together. And my “What If Demons” fly.
What if I chilled the fuck out?
What if I did give in?
What if, just once, I stopped thinking about everything that could go wrong, and let myself want him—not in locker room stalls or treehouses, but fully, recklessly, here and now?
The thought is terrifying. Yet intoxicating.
Bare minimum? I could get a few orgasms. Maybe even a dinner. Or two. And a side of dessert.
At what cost?
When Soren’s eyes drop to my mouth, electricity skitters across my nerves like someone just plugged me in. Every muscle locks, breath stumbles, and panic mixes with want. He’s about to kiss me, and my body is all in while my brain is screaming abort mission.
He drifts forward.
“There’s something that I don’t understand,” I say, making him halt.
“What’s that?” Soren leans back, away from the heat sparking between us, and my lungs forget their job—because apparently, they were counting on himto finish what he started.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I’d like to.”
Something slithers into my chest. Hope? Oh no. I know better than to let that beast get comfortable, so I look away.
“We’ll see,” I say, more to myself than him.
Soren hears it, though. “That we will, Bells. That we will.”
He’s relentless in his pursuit to prove that this isn’t lust, or a publicity stunt, or some passing whim, but something that could actually matter.
I’m equally committed to shutting it down before it splinters through the seams I’ve spent years stitching shut. The stakes are too personal. This thing between us is a war of poached glances and loaded silences. Of confessions wrapped in charm and kisses.
All of which I haven’t stopped dreaming about over the years. To have…with someone.
And now, with Soren, I’ve stepped onto the battlefield, heart half-armored, pulse fully engaged, and no idea which one of us will be left standing when it’s over. As history has taught me, it won’t be me.
By the time we pull into the gravel drive of my family’s home, dusk has settled over the trees. The porch is lit, and the scent of roasted garlic and sage punches through the crisp air, enveloping us in a homecoming hug when I open the front door.
Inside, G-Ma is back. And hell hath no fury like a matriarch on a mission to celebrate her sweet Ava Bean and her handsome boyfriend before they jet off again.
Herexactwords.
The moment we step over the threshold, she appears–lipstick fresh, arms flung wide. I know for a fact she’s been stationed between the curtains, waiting.
“There they are!” she bellows, bustling forward in a blaze of holiday sweater sequins and scented hairspray. “My favorite couple! I’ve got cider warming, apple pie cooling, and June performing a little ritual in your bedroom to assist with all your future lovemaking needs!”
Soren chokes beside me.
“Oh myGod,G-Ma!” I hiss, face combusting.
“I’m trying to help’,” she huffs. “Memory foam absorbs everything.”
Before I can die a thousand deaths, the front door bursts open behind us with a slam.
Spinning, I immediately collide with an armful of wild hair, tote bags, and the scent of familiar citrus and sandalwood.
