Page 5 of Going Viral for Christmas
Show them fire.
Because no one—especially not Soren Pembry—gets to know what I’m actually feeling inside.
Two
SOREN
The crowd hums like a live wire.
Lighting: Tolerable.
Energy: Feral.
In the crush of perfume and paper, a woman in fullBeneath the Bloomcosplay—from my latest bestseller—glides past, complete with a red corset, thigh holsters, and attitude.
Usually, that level of dedication would start a small riot in my pants. I’m a simple man: put a heroine in leather and I’m halfway to plotting a bonus scene. But somewhere between the third tear-streaked hug and the girl who asked me to press my sword against her thigh for a photo, someone yanked the plug on higher brain functions, short-circuiting my mind altogether.
That someone is Ava Bell.
Queen of Steam, Mistress of Meet-Cutes, the woman whose entire brand is chock-full of cinnamon-roll heroes and guaranteed happy endings. She’s my rival, my foil, the bane of my ShelfSpace existence. And she’s across the ballroom, blazing like fire and defiance.
Thisis a whole different battlefield than online. There, Ava’s words on a screen, a sparring partner I can mute with a swipe or outmaneuverwith a post. In the flesh, she’s devastating, not to mention so fucking beautiful.
My heart slams once, twice, then forgets how to recover. Fingers tighten on my sword hilt. Sweat sneaks beneath my collar despite the AC’s arctic blast.
Battle scenes don’t faze me. Crowds don’t faze me.
Ava Bell in cable knit, absolutely does.
She’s making it physically impossible for me to concentrate.
Okay, fine. It’s the tight sweater dress.
My brain said,Be cool.
My dick said,We are absolutely not being cool.
Ava bent—just to fix a zipper. The hem of her dress lifted a fraction, flashing the underside of her ass. The air left my lungs. And downstairs? Captain Pembry—who, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly known for subtlety—sprang to attention. Full salute. No hesitation.
Standing with a Sharpie in one hand and a situation down below that would embarrass a lesser man, I nearly came in my leather. One more millimeter of curve and I would’ve been handing out signed paperbacks with post-nut clarity.
When she straightened, Ava’s gaze hooked on mine—autumn bright, impossible to dodge—cleaving straight through the armor I didn’t realize I was wearing.
Captain Pembry, ever loyal, reacted once again with enthusiasm.
What Ava doesn’t know. Nor will ever know, is that I’ve spent a year losing sleep over her. Writing letters I’ll never send. Wondering how her laugh sounds. Imagining the warmth behind her most cutting quips. Fisting myself to the point my body can’t tell the difference between tension and need.
Now she’s real. And right in front of me.
No amount of flirtation, attention, or bare skin from another woman means a damn thing when the one with the cinnamon-colored curls and glasses perched on her cute little nose undid me with words alone—words that sliced and sparked, sank under my skin, and have stayed there, because I’ve let them. Because they’re hers.
Another satisfied reader approaches. Flashing a practicedgrin, I drag my pen across her book with a flourish that’s become muscle memory. The ink bleeds dark against cream pages, my signature a bold slash of black that matches the leather wrapped around my wrist. I hand it back with a smile that once came naturally to me. Now, it’s just me putting on a mask. Every. Single. Time.
The woman’s fingers tremble as she clutches the book to her chest like a holy relic.
“Thanks for reading.”
She lets out a squeak so shrill, I half-expect steam to shoot out of her ears. Full kettle meltdown. Then she floats away.
