Page 30 of Going Viral for Christmas
“Not at all, we were just discussing Ava’s dramatic flair for denial,” Fisher replies cheerfully.
“Denial? Well, that doesn’t sound like her at all.”
My attention bounces between them. “Wow. A two-man improv set. How lucky am I?”
“Fisher Wallen.” He offers his hand to Soren across the space.
“Soren Pembry.” Their handshake is brief but weighted.
“She’s been singing your praises, by the way,” Fisher muses. “Can’t stop talking about your… sword.”
I choke on air. “Okay, nope. Absolutely not.”
Soren’s villain smirk is back. “I’m flattered. Not everyone appreciates true craftsmanship.”
“I appreciate silence,” I deadpan.
“Not my style,” Fisher says. “You know that.”
“Mine either,” Soren agrees.
I fold my napkin with a little more aggression than necessary. “You two should take this show on the road. Maybe open for a band calledThe Misogynotes.”
Fisher chuckles. “Careful, Soren, she’s spicy tonight.”
Soren’s dark yet amused gaze cuts to mine. “She writes spice, Fisher. It was only a matter of time before some of it rubbed off on her.”
I sneer at him.
“When I started roasting your books, I thought you were all cardigans and clean kisses.” Soren leans an inch closer. “But there’s filth hiding under that sweater dress, isn’t there?”
Fisher props his chin on his hand and sighs happily. “God, I love live theater.”
I ignore him. My eyes are set on the enemy. “You want to say that again with fewer contract violations?”
Soren’s grin deepens. “Not particularly.”
Fisher continues to listen, unbothered as always. He waves to the waiter for another drink. “Don’t get too close, lover boy. She bites.”
Soren smirks. “Even better.”
“Oh, I like him, Ava.”
“Thank you, Fisher.” Soren claps a hand on Fisher’s shoulder and squeezes. “How about you, Bells? Doyoulike me too?”
“Don’tcall me that.”
Soren leans on the table with his forearms, then twists his neck to survey the gathering of influencers. “We should cause a little trouble while we’re here. You game?”
“No,” I say immediately. “You’re not staying.”
“Admit it,” he replies. “You’d be disappointed if I were anything other than trouble.”
To avoid looking at him, I stare down at my plate. His trees and sweat scent from earlier now smells more like magical pine needles, sultry smoke, and some enchanted elixir that was probably brewed under a full moon, possibly by a sexy wizard from another realm with one hand on his hip and a prophecy on his tongue.
Jesus, I’m really leaning into the fantasy genre all of a sudden.
“What, no witty quip?” Soren teases. “Should I be worried?”
