Page 166 of Going Viral for Christmas
Ava’s brows furrow. “Wait. You’re mad because I didn’ttellyou?”
“Oh, I’mlivid,love. You didn’t even give me a courtesy call! You two have been fake dating, slow burning, sexual tensioning your way through this entire tour, and now it’sfinallyescalated—except apparently the only person who didn’t get the memo was me!” He crosses his arms defiantly.
I stare, still stuck on what he said earlier. “You made emergency snacks?”
Fisher scoffs. “Don’t give me that look. You’re the one who ruined the evening with the simple flick of your tongue. Or hell, maybe your cock. I don’t know. Nobody told me. Andof courseI made snacks. What kind of friend do you think I am? People get weak after sex, Soren. Blood sugar drops. Knees buckle. Emotions flare. Do you want her passing out mid-thrust?No.That’s why I pack protein bars and chocolate-covered almonds in myclutch.I’m a responsible assistant who’s been waiting for this moment to happen since day one.”
Ava makes a slight, mortified sound and buries her face in her hands. “Ohmy God.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Those noises, Ava. I thought you were being murdered—not climaxing into the afterlife. Honestly, I was halfway to calling security.”
Ava drops her hands, her face crimson. “It was a moment. Apanic attack preventionmoment.”
“A preventative orgasm?” Fisher sneers. “Brilliant. I support it. Next time, maybe don’t hold your crisis intervention in the wine cellar, acoustically adjacent to the event being hosted by yourpublisher. Not to mention agent and editor.”
There’s a long pause. Then Ava giggles.
She tries to smother it behind her hand, but fails, full-body, shoulder-shaking laughter spilling out as the last of her tension finally breaks.
I laugh too. I can’t help it.
Fisher sighs. “You’re both disgusting. But I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks?” I say, unsure whether I should feel grateful or threatened.
“Now.” Fisher smooths his jacket. “Let’s go. Your next appearance is in six minutes. If we’re late, Renata will sacrifice me to the influencer gods.”
He spins on his heel and marches down the hall, muttering about being “scarred for life.”
Ava reaches for my hand as we follow behind him. She squeezes once, and the pressure says enough.
Twenty-Nine
AVA
The glitter has settled from theSnowflake Gala. The suite is quiet. Lights dimmed. Champagne flutes still half-full on the marble bar. My heels are somewhere near the sofa. And I’m standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows in this costly hotel, staring out at the glittering sprawl of the Chicago skyline, trying to breathe through the gnawing ache in my chest.
The entire night was asmashingsuccess. Our photos are circulating online. There’s a shot of me laughing in Soren’s arms that is a new favorite of mine. A filtered video of us clinking glasses. A clip of him whispering in my ear and my entire body turning toward him as a sunflower in heat.
The world believes we’re together.
Our plan is working.
My notifications are exploding. My sales have doubled overnight.The Boyfriend Deadlineis officially on the bestseller list, climbing, proving a point. ShelfSpace is frothing. There are fancams. Fancams, plural.
It’s everything I wanted. But beneath all the glitter and dopamine and breathless headlines, that familiar scratch is back.
The one that whispersdon’t get too comfortable.
The one that hissesthis is all too good to be true.
Because it is. Right?
Soren Pembry is too good to be true. He’s every fantasy rolled into six feet of dangerandunexpected softness, and tonight—he was mine. Truthfully, mine.
He kissed me. He meant it. Hetouchedme. He meant it. And then he made me scream in a break room as though I was precious and sweet and deserving.
But what if it doesn’t last?
