Page 50 of Going Viral for Christmas
His grin is the devil himself. “Pretty sure you were imagining me pinning you down, making you beg for more reps. With my mouth.”
My elbow finds his rib. He doesn’t even flinch, only laughs low in his throat. I laugh, too, but it’s shaky. Forced. Fake as fuck.
“Such a vivid imagination you have, Pembry,” I try to play it off.
Soren gives a knowing smile. My stomach dips as my mind rewinds that moment. Wait.Wait.Oh God. Did hehearme? Did heseeme?
The flush crawling up my neck has nothing to do with flirtation. It’s pure panic. I can’t meet his eyes. If heknows—if he has even an inkling of what I did in that locker room—I’m going to have to dig a hole and throw myself in it.
“Mhm.” To my utter shock and horror, he presses a kiss to the side of my cheek, likeI’m cute for trying, and walks off as though he didn’t detonate a bomb in my pants or my brain.
An hour and several photos later, Soren and I are walking in the pumpkin patch under a canopy of fairy lights as dusk settles over the courtyard, crisp fall air thick with the scent of cinnamon and cider.
I’ve calmed down a little. Thankfully, the adrenaline from the kiss has faded to a low simmer, and my heartbeat has returned to a normal pace. I’ve stopped mentally replaying that moment in the locker room like I’m studying film footage from a car crash and a sex dream at the same time.
Mostly.
Now, as I walk beside him through the faux-rustic fantasy Camille designed, something feels...different. Less performative. More tangible.
It could be the quiet between us, or the fact that his fingers keep brushing mine, testing what I’ve dubbedthe Contact Theory—that little experiment where a man pretends he isn’t trying to hold your hand. Still, every accidental touch is actually a question. It would be sweet any other time. Harmless, even. But with Soren, it feels like a fuse waiting to catch fire.
His attention is on the families nearby, thekids in matching scarves, the older couple sharing a caramel apple, the man walking his golden retriever.
What would this scene feel like if it weren’t staged? If the camera wasn’t watching? If the lights weren’t for show, and this were arealdate?
“You okay?” Soren asks softly, eyes still forward.
I shake those previous thoughts loose. “Yeah, just taking it all in.”
He hums a low note, not fully buying that answer, but isn’t going to push. I’m glad. If he did, I’m not sure what would come out of my mouth.
The two of us fall into step again. Oddly comfortable. And that might be the craziest part of all.
Camille, Renata, and Fisher trail behind, giving the illusion of privacy while still managing the optics.
And Soren and I? We’re on.
Walking beside me, he tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat. We pass rows of pumpkins stacked high on hay bales and kids running around, hiding behind corn husks and scarecrows.
I’m tense once again. My smile stiffens at every click of a camera lens. It’s like a countdown to implosion.
Soren nudges a tiny pumpkin with the toe of his boot. “That one kind of reminds me of you. Compact. Seasonal. Outrageously cute.”
I snort despite myself. “You calling me small?”
“I’m saying you pack more impact than most of the oversized ones put together.”
He’s teasing. There’s a gentleness in the way he says it—a softness I hadn’t expected.
Pausing at a cider stand set up beside a decorative fire pit, Soren orders two and hands me mine before I can speak. The tension in my shoulders doesn’t entirely disappear.
Settling on a bench near a fire pit, warm mugs in hand, I glance around, making sure no one’s directly pointing a lens at us.
“So,” he starts after a beat, “is this the weirdest fake date you’ve ever had?”
“It’s the only fake date I’ve ever had.”
“Mine too.”
