Page 157 of Going Viral for Christmas
Soren sets down a puzzle piece and leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on mine.
“As I’ve stated, I developed a thing for you after I read your book. Your voice was in every line. Every page. And your hero—he got to me. I related to him on levels I didn’t even know existed. Not because he was perfect. But because he wasn’t.” Soren leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze unwavering. “You wrote this man who was angry and messy and trying so damn hard to be better. And the woman who saw through all of it—who loved him anyway. And I thought… shit. That’s how I want to be.”
Blushing, I bite my bottom lip.
“I didn’t know how to be with you,” he continues. “You were smart. Funny. You could cut me without flinching. So, I kept throwing jabs online. Made it a game. Kept it fun. But the first time I saw you in person… the real Ava Bell and not the online version, I was done.”
“Done with what?”
“Everything that didn’t have you in it.”
I stare at him, wondering how and why the universe gave me this man.
“You’re special.” He doesn’t smile. Neither do I. And finally, the walls guarding my chest finally crumble to dust. “You came into my life for a reason.”
I break eye contact first. It’s not that I don’t believe him. I do. For some crazy reason. And that’s what makes it so terrifying.
My thumb runs along the rim of my mug, mirroring the gesture he made earlier. I stare down into the cooling tea, watching the steam rise and fade like a breath I’m too scared to let go.
“Look…” My voice cracks. I clear it. “Soren, you have to promise to take it slow.”
He doesn’t argue. He listens. Gives me space.
“You can get swept up in the ‘show.” And that’s the kind of thing that’ll make me run away. Fast.”
Recognition flickers in his expression, accompanied by a hint of understanding.
“I don’t need all the fireworks,” I whisper. “I just need you to walk, instead of sprint.”
Soren’s hand covers mine, grounding, warm.
“Then I’ll walk, Bells,” he says. “Even crawl if I have to.”
My heart shudders at that. It isn’t fear. It’s relief—over the weight of being heard without being rushed.
A beat passes. My pulse kicks, but I try to smile anyway, because I want this too. I like him too much to let him go.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”
His grin doesn’t explode across his face. It blooms—slow and stunned. He wasn’t expecting me to say yes.
“You will?” he asks softly, like it’s the most important question he’s ever posed.
I nod, swiping stray strands of hair from my face. “I’m still scared.”
Soren’s hand finds mine. His strong touch doesn’t demand anything—but promises everything. “You don’t have to be fearless,” he says. “Just honest.”
I exhale through a laugh, a real one this time. “That’s not my specialty.”
“Good,” he says. “I’ve got enough delusional optimism for the both of us.” Soren’s mouth curves into that lopsided grin that undoes me.
We don’t go back to the puzzle. We channel our inner eight-year-olds and build a fort instead.
What starts as a joke turns into a production. We stack couch cushions against the walls. Drape quilts between furniture. Clip fairy lights along the edge of my bookshelf using hairpins and sheer dumb luck. He even folds my favorite velvet bathrobe into a “throne,” because apparently, even make-believe queens need proper lumbar support.
Soren tosses a throw blanket over two dining chairs and declares, in a truly awful British accent, “Behold, the romantic lair of Bellatrix the Bold and her morally conflicted warlock boyfriend.”
I laugh and kiss him silly.
