Page 25 of Going Viral for Christmas
It’s hard for me to admit how my traitorous eyes immediately zeroed in on the trail of hair leading south from his navel, like it was a fucking treasure map.
At that moment, I was a sinner. A fraud. A woman two seconds from licking her screen and renouncing every opinion she’d ever had about fantasy authors and their egos. Or at least, this particular fantasy author.
That post was a declaration of war.
Then, he took it too far.
In order to make me homicidal, he capped it all off with a black-and-white “dramatic reading” reel—lit similar to a poetry slam, jazz music in the background, one eyebrow raised as though he was interpreting Tolstoy instead of a five-page ode to cabin fever and creative use of furniture.
“Some say love is a fire,”Soren read,“but in the woods… it’s a slow burn.”
My book was trending within the hour, along with his six-pack. And that’s when viral rivalsBell and The Bladewere born. Dueling hashtags and all.
“You’re chewing like someone just served you a side of roasted octopus dick,” Fisher’s voice slices clean through my spiral.
I realize I’ve been mauling my maple-glazed pork chop. “No, I’m chewing like someone who agreed to fake-date her rival. Fortwomonths.”
Across the table, Fisher looks effortlessly elegant as he stirs his cocktail with the cinnamon stick garnish.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re overthinking.”
“So what?”
“So, regret isn’t exactly your best shade, Luv,” Fisher says with glittering judgment.
“You’re right.” I blow a stray curl out of my face, sit up straighter, summoning whatever scraps of composure I have left, and stab my pork chop with my fork. “I am in control. This is a strategic career move.”
“Ah.” Fisher tilts his head. “Is that going to be your new daily mantra, or are we still pretending the reason you’re this worked up isn’t because he gets under your skin?”
My fork freezes mid-air.
“You don’t hate him, Ava. You’re curious. And curiosity, my dear, is foreplay’s favorite cousin.”
“He doesn’t get under my skin,” I deny it. “I told you already. Iloathehim.”
“Loathing is simply another brand of lust?” Fisher seems pleased with himself. “Call it strategy all you want, but we both know this isn’t about exposure or clicks. This is about curiosity.”
“Curiosity over what, exactly?”
“Soren Pembry’s flesh sword, of course.”
My eyes narrow on him. “Thisscheme has nothing to do withthat.”
“Mhm.” Fisher takes a bite of his food. “You’re telling me you’ve never thought about it?”
“Not. Once.”
Lie. That’s a lie. I’ve imagined it. More than once. If a particular scene inThe Boyfriend Deadlinereads suspiciously close to a fantasy involving a hot tub and a man whose likeness resembles Soren Pembry… well, all I can say is creative minds pull from the strangest places.
Fisher arches one perfectly plucked brow. Busted.
“Even if I have, I can’t act upon it. That would be a disaster waiting to happen. One with unfairly broad shoulders and the potential to tank my career.”
Fisher shakes his head at me, his dark skin radiating under the golden light. Long, tightly woven dreads are pulled back into a half-up style that makes his cheekbones even more mysterious. “I have a feeling this is going to be exactly what you need.”
“What? Public humiliation?”
