Page 107 of Going Viral for Christmas
Yeah. It’s working.
The axe lands with a satisfyingthwack, dead center in the target.
I roll my shoulders, pretending I haven’t been watching every damn reaction from behind me since I walked into this place.
Sure enough, Emily’s cocktail straw drops from her mouth.
Fisher mutters a statement that sounds suspiciously like, “Jesus, take the loincloth.”
And Ava’s sipping her drink, as though it’s the only thing tethering her to God’s green Earth, but the heat in her gaze is giving her away.
Good.
I take another axe from the pile and toss it in my palm. “You guys done throwing or...?”
Emily waves a dismissive hand. “Why mess with greatness?”
“Honestly,” Fisher says, leaning back against the bar, “I’m reconsidering everything I thought I knew about fantasy nerds. Do any of your book signings come with a personal lumberjack demo?”
I smirk. “Only the premium packages.”
Ava snorts into her drink, which makes me grin wider. Every laugh I can wring out of her is a win. She’s loosened up. Thank you, dirty martini.
The air between us is starting to crackle again. And I fucking love it.
“Speaking of packages,” Emily says, swiveling in her seat. “This is the part where we all share deeply personal and slightly inappropriate facts about ourselves.”
I approach. “You first.”
“Gladly.” Emily readjusts in her seat. “I’m currently a professor of human sexuality at Seattle Pacific University.”
“Wait?” Fisher’s head whips around. “I thought you were…a philosophy person.”
“I was. But then I realized people don’t actually want to read about Descartes. They want to read about desire. Power. Pleasure.” She shrugs. “So I followed the libido of academia and here I am.”
Fisher raises his glass to her. “Respect. Sexuality is philosophy, but with better toys.”
Emily laughs. “Exactly.”
Ava leans over with mock whisper-shock. “Tell them the rest.”
Emily eyes her, cheeks tinting a touch. “For real?”
“There’s a rest?” I inquire.
“There’s a manuscript,” Ava sings.
Emily rolls her eyes but grins. “Fine. I’m writing a novel.”
“A romance novel?” Fisher guesses.
Emily hesitates.
“A rom-com?” I offer.
“Definitely not.” Her eyes flick toward the wall. “An erotic novel, with darker romance.”
There’s silence, then Fisher lets out a delighted gasp. “Shut. Up.”
