Page 178 of Going Viral for Christmas
Once, I filmed an entire reel in a bathtub full of rose petals reading an enemies-to-lovers novella while making “tortured soul” eye contact with the camera.
I’ve worn leather pants in summer. I’ve hosted a panel calledBattle Mage But Make Him Daddy.
But nothing—and I meannothing—has prepared me for the moment I step onto the floor of theBookmas Bashwearing a matching ugly Christmas sweater with Ava Bell.
Mine has a dragon curled around a snow-dusted castle, breathing fire that conveniently spellsMerry Christmas.
Hers features Santa’s sleigh rocking suspiciously on its runners, mistletoe dangling from the reins. One reindeer peeks back wide-eyed. Caption:Sleigh My Name, Sleigh My Name.
We seem to have lost a bet to two overcaffeinated publicists and the ghost of tacky Christmas.
Oh, wait, we did.
Renata’s eyes practically glow with glee. “How festive! The fans are going to eat this up. I’ve uploaded your sweaters to both your sites for merchandise orders.”
“If one more person asks if we coordinated our ‘couples look’ on purpose?—”
“You did,” Camille says, casually, but grinning. “For the brand, obviously.”
I narrow my eyes. “You love this.”
“I do.”
Ava snakes an arm around my waist, attempting to calm me. “I think we look cute.”
I glance down at her. “Fine. I’ll wear it, but only because I’m a man who’s about to plunder Santa’s workshop and seduce a Jingle Bells heiress.” My nose nuzzles into her hair, and she giggles.
Pushing me away playfully, Ava shakes her head, still grinning. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Honestly?” My brows waggle. “Very little ever since this morning.”
How could I complain? Ava dropped to her knees on the shower floor, lips sliding down my cock until the steam fogged over and I was braced against the tile, bellowing her name while she swallowed every last drop like it was the only thing on the breakfast menu. I barely staggered out of that shower alive.
My girl blushes and shoves a handful of Sharpies at me. “Go sit at your table, Book Daddy.”
After hours of signing, the holiday sweater Camille stuffed me into is hot, itchy, and suffocating me like a damn straitjacket. I can’t take it anymore.
“Camille,” I say, yanking at the offensive wool around my torso. “I’m done with this sweater. You can shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
Beside me, Avasnortsbehind her hand.
Camille crosses her arms, arches a brow, then leans in so no one else can hear. “You signed a contract, Pembry. And we pay ashit tonof money to make you look good. You will wear the damn sweater.”
Ava is grinning, cheeks an adorable shade of pink.
Yeah. Nope.
“I’ll take my chances with hypothermia and public nudity,” I declare, then I rip the damn thing off.
There’s screaming. A woman drops her tote bag.Stickers fly like confetti. I spot a grown-ass man openly weeping near the fantasy map wall.
Without missing a beat, I ball up the sweater and chuck it into the crowd.
“Yesssssss!” someone yells.
“Oh my God!” Another screams.
“Lick his nipple!” a third voice chimes in.
