Page 170 of Going Viral for Christmas
“Too late. I’m already planning your engagement photo aesthetic.”
Groaning, I cover my face with both hands. “We agreed it wasn’t going to be a thing. Then itbecame a thing.We spent an entire weekend snowed in. And now…I’m scared, but happy. And also scared.”
Fisher reaches across the table, resting his perfectly manicured hand over mine. “Here’s the deal. You’re scared because this isn’t about numbers or PR or bestselling lists anymore. This is about him. And you. And how he makes you feel like youmatter,even when you’re clearly spiraling.”
My throat threatens to close up.
He squeezes my hand. “So yeah. I joke. But I see it. You trust him. And the way he looks at you? That man would buy every one of your books from every store in America if you asked him to. He probably already has.”
I’m laughing, shoulders shaking, when a shadow falls across our table.
“Wow,” a syrupy voice says. “So it is true.”
Our attention shifts.
Tall. Blonde. A Bond girl type in kitten heels and head-to-toe monochrome beige. She’s holding a latte and haughtiness in equal measure.
“Sorry—do I know you?” I ask her.
“Oh, no, you don’tme,” she says, fake-laughing that’s too high-pitched for this early hour. “But your so-called boyfriend, Soren, does.”
The sound of his name on her collagen-injected lips snaps my anxiety up to a roaring level.
She presses a manicured hand to her chest. “It’s so funny. Right before the Great Booksgiving kickoff party, Soren was waking me up with his tongue in my—well. You get it.”
My stomach squeezes around the knife she just inserted.
And twists.
BecauseI doget it. Vividly. Horribly.
I get it so well that my brain helpfully fills in the blanks with flashes I never saw—but now can’t unsee.
But worse than the visual, is the math.
The timeline.
Booksgiving.
Her.
Us.
The cabin.
I hear his voice in my head, clear as that first snowfall:“It’s been over a year since I’ve had a partner.”
My chest goes tight. My breath comes shallow.
If what this woman is saying is true, then he lied. And not just a little white lie—anemotional landmine.
And just like that, my demons—so carefully silenced, so neatly tucked away—come drifting back in.
You’re so naive.
Nothing but a conquest.
A joke.
