Page 135 of Going Viral for Christmas
Soren’s watching me now, the movie forgotten. “Sounds like someone else’s dad I know.”
I’m caught off guard by the tenderness in his voice. “Yeah. Mine’s like that. He doesn’t get the whole ShelfSpace thing, but he understands books. He prints out my covers and keeps them framed in his garage next to his tools.”
Soren smiles. “That’s so fucking cute.”
Pride tightens in my throat. “Growing up, he bought me a new book every birthday growing up. Still does. And every year, he writes a message on the inside cover like he’s my personal dedicator.”
“Dedicators are underrated,” Soren says quietly. “They’re the people who believe in you even before the acknowledgments.”
That stupid, fluttery ache in my chest kicks up again.
This man. This night. This slow burn unfurling.
“I’m going to need a restraining order against how sweet you’re being.”
“Nah,” he murmurs. “But if I go out, I’m going out with popcorn in my hair and my self-respect intact.”
“You had self-respect?”
“It was very brief. I lost it somewhere around the sparkle reveal.”
I laugh harder than I have in years. Soren laughs too—deep and rumbling—and then reaches over and tucks a piece of popcorn from behind my ear like he’s unveiling a magic trick.
My breath catches—mercifully, brilliantly—then, as the scene changes. Bella’s confronting Edward in the forest. He tells her tosay it.
Soren leans in, whispers, “Vampire,” at the exact same time Bella does.
We both snort. The mood lifts again. The tension folds itself back into laughter and sugar and the mess of who we are tonight—two people flirting through their defenses, popcorn in their hair, movie glow on their skin.
I don’t know what will happen next. But for now, we press play.
And keep watching.
Twenty-Two
SOREN
Somewhere betweenEclipseandBreaking Dawn, Ava gave up the fight. The fire’s burned down to glowing embers, soft orange light filtering across the room. Her TV screen has dimmed to that blue screensaver with the bouncing logo, the movie long since over.
One second, she was curled up with her knees tucked beneath her, making snarky comments about Edward’s tragic cheekbones, and the next, she was out cold.
Ava’s draped across me, her cheek pressed to my chest, her body slack and warm across mine, one of her hands resting over my stomach. I haven’t moved for hours. I should shift. Stretch. At least cover us with a blanket. But I can’t seem to do anything but hold her close and watch the firelight dance across her face.
She’s beautiful, peaceful, she belongs here, curled into me. God, I never want thisonenight to end.
Every so often, I trace her features with my gaze—those full lips, the faint crease between her brows even in sleep, like she’s still a little suspicious of rest. Of comfort. Of me.
I don’t want to move. If I do, she’ll wake, and the moment will break.
Carefully sliding my hand from her waist, my fingers brush overbare skin where the hem of her shirt has ridden up, exposing soft, creamy skin. My thumb grazes the warmth there, soft, tender, memorizing her by touch alone.
Ava stirs. A soft noise escapes her lips, then her lashes flutter open. With one hand braced against my chest, she pushes herself up. Autumn-colored eyes dart toward the fireplace, the bouncing blue screen, and finally, to me.
For a few beats, Ava only stares down at me. The light in her eyes regards me in the most tender way, as if she’s letting me glimpse the part of her she guards from the world, like everything could collapse around us and she’d still keep looking at me.
“You fell asleep,” I say, hoping she won’t retreat, but stay,right here, tucked into me.
When I think she’s about to peel herself off me, that light in her eyes sparks into a blaze, and before I’m able to form a single word?—
