Page 106 of Going Viral for Christmas
“Don’t push it,” I shoot back. There’s no heat in it.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“He’s also… smart,” I continue. “Thoughtful. Kind, in a way that sneaks up on you. And he makes me laugh, a lot, even when I don’t want to.”
The weight of his attention is the same as the sun burning through glass.
G-Ma chimes in, “Soren, baby, tell us about your family.”
Soren’s hand, resting lightly on the table, goes still, and the boyish charm dims behind his eyes. With one single question, G-Ma flipped off a switch.
“There’s not much to tell,” he says after a few seconds of hesitation.
My mom frowns. G-Ma opens her mouth, ready to dive in with something probably involving casseroles and trauma.
I cut her off. “Hey.” I stand and grab the deck. “Who wants a rematch? I refuse to end this trip as the Peon.”
Everyone shifts their focus. Laughter returns, and the questions stop.
Soren meets my eyes, gratitude swimming inside his stormy grays. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to.
I sit back down, nerves buzzing, because I know what I just did. I didn’t do it for the charade. Or for any cameras. Definitely not for some invisible contract.
I did it for him.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Fisher whoops, returning with a bottle of bourbon and a handheld fan for G-Ma. “Let’s go. Dalmuti rules. No mercy.”
Before anyone can deal, Emily lifts a finger. “No rematch for us. You three—out.” She points at me, Soren, and Fisher. “We’ve got drinks to consume, places to be, and a week of shit to unpack.” She grimaces. “Okay, that’s not a good visual. Sorry about that. We have things to discuss.”
G-Ma gasps. “But the casserole?—”
Emily waves her off. “No can do, G-Ma. We’ll be back for leftovers and feelings later.”
Fisher grabs his coat and flashes a grin. “If we’re not back by midnight, assume we’ve all eloped or joined a cult.”
G-Ma huffs. “Same difference.”
Eighteen
SOREN
They’ve all stopped throwing.
Emily, Fisher, Ava—each of them holding drinks, jaws slack, not even pretending to hide the fact they’re watching me.
I’m the evening entertainment. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t performing a little.
Okay—a lot.
The second Ava’s eyes went wide on my first throw, a primal feeling kicked in. I adjusted my stance. Tightened my grip. Threw harder. Showed off the forearms so she’d squirm in her seat.
She’s sitting with her legs crossed now, trying to appear unaffected. Her gaze keeps dropping to my hands. My arms. My chest.
They can’t possibly know I used to do axe-throwing events at cons, right? Or that I choreographed fight scenes for a LARP team that took it way too seriously?
Whatever. Tonight, I’m not Soren Pembry, fantasy author. I’m the guy making Ava Bell rethink every wall she’s ever built—with every single satisfyingthunkof blade against wood. While she tries to patch the cracks with fresh cement, I keep chipping away at her defenses like they were never meant to hold. And from the way her tongue darts out to wet herbottom lip?
