Page 26 of Going Viral for Christmas
“A personality exfoliant.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ava, you are layers upon layers of self-control and perfectly paced romance. Fall scented candles, color-coded bookshelves, and repressed sexual tension. You need a sledgehammer. Well, congratulations, you have been granted a fantasy fuckboy whose bone structure, and I meanbonestructure, was blessed by the gods. Soren’s aura radiates with the promise that he could destroy your vagina,with said sledgehammer,and you’d beg for seconds, maybe even thirds, with his hands still cupping your ass and your morals left in the sheets.”
My jaw falls open. “First of all, eww. Second of all, I thought you were on my side.”
“Of course I am,” he says, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “But your dry spell is longer than the runtime of Titanic. And right now, you get to be your very own Enemies-to-Lovers tropein publicwith a man who probably smells like bergamot and leather.”
“He smells like trees and sweat.”
“Even better.” Fisher takes another bite of his food.
“How is that better?”
Fisher swallows, sips his water to wash it down. “The man looks like he was hand-forged by those same gods in a thunderstorm—he’s gritty, and built to last. If you get what I’m sayin.”
I stare at him. “Okay, calm down.”
Fisher shrugs. “Hey, if Thor’s morally gray cousin wants to rail you into inner peace, who am I to stand in the way?”
“Fisher!”
“What? Maybe a little swordplay—literalor otherwise—will loosen you up.”
I slap a napkin over my face and groan.
“You’d better conquer that man like he’s the last enchanted keystone holding the gate to total satisfaction.”
“Lower your voice,” I hiss as a pair of authors walk past our table.
He ignores me. “I wonder if he moans while reading sexually charged scenes out loud when he’s writing?”
“Fisher.”
“Do you moan when you do it?”
“Not funny and none of your business.”
“So, yes then?” Shameless, Fisher grins, arrogant charm dialed to the max. He enjoys poking the bear to see how loud it roars.
I glare at him. He winks.
Over this conversation, I stab a crouton, then shove it into my mouth.
“You’re still chewing aggressively,” Fisher states.
“Why are you judging my chewing so harshly tonight? And what does that even mean?”
“Repressed sexual tension always shows up somewhere. For some people, it’s the gym. For you? It’s how violently you murder carbs. Like people who eat ice.Aggressively.”
A flash snatches my attention. Across the room, someone snaps a selfie with a best-selling romantic suspense author.
The whole place whirs with the low-grade buzz of industry mingling over cocktails, influencers recording content, publicists schmoozing, ShelfSpacers scouting angles.
Then there’s me, sitting at the corner table, pouting, while my very judgmental PA cleans his plate and sips his drink.
“You’re crashing,” Fisher says. “It’s not a good look.”
