Page 207 of Going Viral for Christmas
Then we said this:
“We’re in love. Time will show you the truth of it. That’s fine. We’re not rushing it. But you won’t seeBell and The Bladebattling it out online anymore. The sarcasm will be less. The insults will die. The genre wars will look a little different. Less war. More healthy debate. From here on out, our feeds are spaces of support. Of light. Ofbookish love. We’re dedicating ourselves to helping aspiring authors—and championing readers—no matter what they choose to read. Books are for everyone. No matter the tropes. Period.”
The reaction was overwhelming. Some rolled their eyes. Some called it a PR pivot. But most cheered.
Now, it’s New Year’s Eve. We’re walking intoMidnight Kisses and Paper Wishes, hand in hand, deliriously in love.
We don’t know what to expect. We don’t care. We’re together. That’s all that matters.
The past week has been a blur. Soren rented us a cottage in Port Townsend for a little writer’s retreat, filled with manuscript edits and coffee-fueled plotting. We mostly wore pajamas, or nothing at all, and argued about who got to eat the last cinnamon roll. I’ll let you infer how that argument ended.
I saw Emily. She took us to a charming bookstore calledNorth & Anchor. The owners are a couple named Rorie and Nolan. They’re disgustingly in love. Even worse than us.
They bickered over shelving. Flirted over coffee cups. He tried to smuggle her romance novels into the fantasy display. She made heart eyes at him while threatening to burn his limited editions. I adored them instantly. And apparently, Rorie’s a massive fan of mine, carries every book I’ve ever written in the store.
All of this made a new small-town romance series percolate in my brain. I’ve already started the outline. It opens in a coastal bookshop with a secret second floor. But that’s a next year project. Right now, I’m too busy beingdisgustinglyin love myself.
A weird warmth blooms in my chest as we make our way inside the ballroom, where Camille and Renata swirl around us as nervous little hummingbirds. Renata keeps fake-laughing. Camille might throw up on her own clipboard.
I don’t blame them. This whole event is press-heavy. Fans. Media. Authors. ShelfSpacers.
It’sa lot.
Soren squeezes my hand, tugs me toward the dessert bar, not a care in the world. We pass Matthew on the way. He’s standing in the corner, nursing a bottle of wine that I’m pretty sure was meant to be decorative.
“Why does Matthew look like someone kicked his puppy?” I whisper. “Also, he’s downed that whole bottle himself.”
Soren presses his lips to my ear. “Don’t say anything. Pretend you don’t know whenever he finally says something.”
“Know what?”
He hesitates at a beat before finally saying, “His wife left him.OnChristmas.”
My heart lurches.“Oh my God.”
“Yeah. He’s not well.”
My eyes shift back to Matthew, who lifts his bottle in a sad salute.
“We’ll talk to him later,” Soren whispers. “Just leave him to his feelings for now.”
I nod, then, as if summoned by magic, readers start to approach. Authors, too. Some teary. Some giddy. Some with a gleam in their eye that says,I’ve been there. I understand.
They tell us our story gave them hope. It reminded them that even if two people start as fiction, it doesn’t mean their love can’t be real.
After hours of mingling, my cheeks ache from smiling while my feet beg for mercy. I’m mid-sip of my water when Soren leans in.
“Come with me,” he says, tugging my hand. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Is it another photo station?”
He laughs. “No, this is better. Sort of. Actually, I don’t think anything can top that.”
We slip out a side door, down a path lit by fairy lights and silver lanterns. At the end of it, there’s a gazebo. A very familiar gazebo.
Twilightfans, brace yourselves.
The white wooden trim. The dangling icicles. The warm glow of light strung through every beam. It’s a scene from a fanfiction dream.
