Page 151 of Going Viral for Christmas
Soren freezes, snow dripping from his lashes, lips parted in outrage.
“First blood!” I shriek and cackle.
His eyes gleam with unholy delight. “You want war, Bells? You got it.”
He dives out of the snowbank as a man possessed and one with absolutely zero plan, scooping snow with both hands.
It flies everywhere.
Shrieking, I take cover behind the porch column as a poorly packed snowball sails past my head and hits the door behind me with a sadplop.
“You throw like a man who writes poetry in his underwear,” I call out.
“I do, and I make women weep,” he shouts back, lobbing another one with improved aim.
We’re both snow-fueled idiots, laughing, ducking and dodging and slipping on ice patches, shouting insults and declarations of love.
The world has gone white. The cold is brutal. And somehow, I’ve never felt warmer.
After launching another snowball, I bolt for cover behind the shed, legs wobbling in my puffy suit like I’m running in a weighted blanket. My lungs are burning, my cheeks are numb, but I can’t stop laughing.
I hear him coming before I see him—thunderous footfalls in boots, the slap of frozen fuzzy pompoms, and the dramatic war cry of a man with nothing to lose.
“AVA BELL, PREPARE YOURSELF.”
Heart hammering with pure energetic joy, I sprint toward the woods, snow spraying at my shins.
I’m fast.
He’s faster.
A second later, big arms wrap around my waist and I’m tackled into a snowbank with a shriek, landing in a flurry of white and wild laughter.
Breathing hard, we collapse into the drift, limbs entwined, the unmistakable weight of him over me. Soren braces his hands on either side of my head, breathing hard, his nose red, his lashes dusted in snow.
Chest heaving, I look up at him, my scarf halfway down my face. His beanie is crooked. He’s absolutely ridiculous. And completely beautiful.
Soren’s eyes search mine, and all that playfulness subtly morphs into softness. “I win,” he declares.
“Debatable,” I breathe.
A smile. “You’re not running…physically, or metaphorically.”
“I know.”
“Why not?”
Because you’re warm, even out here.
Because I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive.
Because this might be the dumbest, most romantic day of my entire existence, and I don’t want it to end.
But I just say, “Because you tackled me into a snowbank and I’m pinned under two hundred plus pounds of smug.”
Leaning down, Soren’s nose grazes mine. “Nah, Bells. That’s physics in my favor.” His lips claim mine, fierce and certain, heat sparking against the cold until every thought of self-preservation is gone. “This? This is me winning. And you’re my prize.”
There it goes, my heart plummeting straight into his hands, no parachute, no way back.
