Page 2 of Going Viral for Christmas
All of it.
That realization sucks an even bigger dick than my sales chart.
Parked in my booth, doom scrolling, I’m one vent-blast away from becoming a puffball with trust issues and a caffeine dependency.
I hate him.
I hate his stupid shoulders—so broad they’re practically blocking out the sun, along with my common sense. His offensively symmetrical face. That mess of hair that somehow flops perfectly, like angels styled it.
Don’t get me started on the cocky beard shadow. Probably scratchy as hell. Bet it feels like sandpaper between your legs, makes you all red and raw.
Terrible.
Sipping my latte, I remind myself I don’t care. Not about his crowd. Or his rabidFanclub. Definitely not about the way one girl purred when he handed her a signed bookmark, as if it were his hotel key.
Wait! Was it his hotel key?
Honestly, wouldn’t put it past him.
Soren’s gaze holds mine for a solid heartbeat. For a fraction of a second—barely longer than a breath—the look he gives me strips away space and sound until it’s just the two of us, air charged. It feels as though I’m no longer across the ballroom, but standing right in front of him. Vulnerable.Unsafe.
He winks. My lungs forget what to do. His mouth curves. It’s in that moment that I know I’m screwed. Or…want to be?What the hell?
No, Ava. No ma’am.One wink from Soren “Whoren” Pembry and my underwear is filing a workplace hazard complaint. Unsafe conditions. Zero protection. Immediate evacuation required.
“Thinkhissword dangles as far down as the one on his hip?” An ever-so-posh British accent curls against my ear, and I jolt, nearly sending a passing woman’s latte flying.
I whip around.“Fisher.”
“If the comment threads are to be believed, that mammoth sword everyone’s fawning over isn’t the only thing worth unsheathing.” Fisher’s tone drips with a conspiratorial glee. “Legend has it, Soren Pembry’s packing the kind of pants magic that derails plot lines and bankrupts pelvic floors.”
I choke on foam. “Oh my God, stop talking.”
“I would, but look at him.” Fisher presses his lanyard to his chest, starry-eyed, as if he’s witnessing the second coming of Henry Cavill. “He’s signing that woman’s tit with finesse. A signature flourish. I’m jealous.”
Fisher Wallen, everyone. Personal assistant—also known as chief enabler, snarky therapist, the couture brooch holding my whole shit show of a life together. He grins like he’s delivered a Shakespearean sonnet instead of an R-rated observation.
I look back over my shoulder. Sure enough, he’s scrawling his name across some woman’s boob. His ridiculously full lips curve as he caps the Sharpie.
“Unprofessional,” I mutter.
“Said the woman making moon-eyes.”
“I amnotmaking moon-eyes.”
“Please. Your pupils dilated. You blinked in slow motion. The next step is spontaneous ovulation.”
“It’s the lighting.”
Fisher retrieves a sugar cookie, shaped like an open book, from his cross-body bag. He takes a bite, talks through the crumbs. “Also, you’re blushing. So you’re either into him…or just plain horny. Do you need a moment? A privacy curtain?”
Classic Fisher. Sharp as a diamond stiletto. Baby-faced. Merciless. He’s been my mainstay since my first indie signing a year and a half ago, where I sat behind a table no one noticed. Fisher, then a volunteer, declared it a “tragic waste of pink lipstick and raw talent,” redecorated the booth, hollered at strangers, and sold a hundred books before lunch.
I hired him on the spot. Best impulsive decision I’ve ever made.
Now, I have an agent, a tiny but mighty backlist of USA Today bestsellers, and a brand that primarily runs on a mix of sweet romance, spice, and sheer delusion.
One of Soren’s large hands is steady on the hilt of his sword while people practically swoon in line to touch it.
