Page 33 of Going Viral for Christmas
My eyes sweep to the table and back again. “Charge everything to my room.”
Soren pauses, seemingly weighing his words, then replies with, “No worries, I’ll get the check. Your last book bombed, remember?”
A sound somewhere between a growl and a hiss escapes my chest–a primal noise reserved for when someone insults your work, your talent, and your dignity all in one casually devastating sentence.
My fists clench. If rage were flammable, the linen napkins would be ash. “How kind of you.”
I walk away. Don’t look back. Iwill notgive that cocky asshole the satisfaction. Even though every fiber of my being is currently debating between flight, murder, or channeling this rage into a revenge plot so satisfying it could launch a bestselling thriller series. Maybe I should seriously explore switching genres.
Oh, and fantasizing about Soren? No longer on the table. Not after what he said just now.Thatvisual has officially been redacted, deleted, and burned in effigy.
Six
SOREN
The groupies were relentless inside that restaurant tonight. It took twenty minutes, three fake phone calls, and one emergency escape through the kitchen to pry them off.
I’m finally alone. My phone’s on silent. My boots are by the door. And I’m standing in front of the window in my suite, watching the wind chase dying leaves across the sidewalk below.
The city glows in a burnt sienna haze, with a moody, fall-evening atmosphere that should feel comforting. It doesn’t. All it does is make the loneliness louder.
Resting my forehead against the glass, the chill seeps into my skin. I’m not used to this kind of silence. At home, I’d fill the space with music or keyboard clicks or the sound of Ava Bell’s videos to break the quiet. But here, there’s nothing except the echo of my own shitty words bouncing around in my skull.
No worries, I’ll get the check. Your last book bombed, remember?
Fucking hell. I don’t know why I said it. No, scratch that. I do. It was a defensive verbal middle finger to cover up how Ava was about to storm off, all gorgeous and furious and entirely out of my reach.
I’ve been a lot of things in my life—reckless when it served me,selfish when I thought it protected me, charming when I needed to be. I’m not cruel. Not intentionally.
When it comes to Ava, I seem to fumble—like on that damn panel stage, inside Camille’s hotel room, tonight at dinner, and even in the way I watch her too long, thinking she won’t notice.
I let out a breath, letting it fog up the glass.
Ava Bell. Fake relationship contract.
Being tied to her, having to touch her, talk to her, pretend she’s mine? Man, I wish it were real. I want it to be. More than I should.
Except she doesn’t know. I’ve been living with my secret for so long now. And I’m not sure if I can ever tell her how I feel, seeing how she hates me like it’s her full-time job, benefits package and all.
Sinking into the nearest armchair, the leather sighs under my weight. I drag a hand down my face. My facial hair is getting a little too overgrown. I haven’t had time to care. Between back-to-back events and being swarmed by fans who believe my characters are their next book boyfriends, I’m nothing more than a role. A glossy cover propped up at signings.
The whole persona’s a shield, though. The real Soren—the one who hasn’t spoken to his father in over five years, my only family left—isn’t someone people want to read about. The fantasy version is easier. Shinier. More marketable.
Ava sees through the bullshit. That’s one of the reasons why I’m so drawn to her.
My messenger bag is sitting next to the armchair. I pick it up, start rifling through it until I find my very worn copy of theLumberjack’s Love Letters.
A shirtless lumberjack stares back at me from the cover. He’s holding an axe, and a well-folded love letter.
I flip through the pages, remembering back to when I first picked up this ridiculous book. At the time, I expected a shit ton of fluff. Some polished, trope-heavy romcom with axe jokes, maple syrup innuendos, and enough sexual tension to fog up a forest.
What I didn’t expect was that gut punch of vulnerability. A wounded, funny, fiercely loyal male lead who wanted to fix everythingbut couldn’t fix himself. A man who fell in love with someone despite every damn reason not to.
Somehow, Ava had reached into my chest, stolen the parts of me I don’t talk about, and stitched them into her fucking manuscript. She had written me, without even knowing she did. Nobody has ever done that. And now I’ve gone and made her hate me. Even more than she did.
Rubbing the back of my neck with one hand, I reach for my phone with the other. It lights up with a flood of notifications—ShelfSpace clips from the panel, edits of Ava and me with heart filters, tagged posts with the captions:Enemies to Lovers? We vote YES.
I scroll past them, then open my camera roll. There’s Ava’s author photo. I may have taken a screenshot of it from her website after reading her book. The picture is of her, in a simple blouse, soft red waves of hair around her face, eyes direct. Honest.
