Page 55 of Going Viral for Christmas
Good talk.
With an exhale, I let go of everything this day threw at us, and the air finally stops vibrating with tension. I set my phone on the bar counter, peel off my jacket, and make a beeline for the liquor tray.
Vodka. Tonic. Ice. Lime. Mechanical muscle memory.
The air outside on the balcony bites with a fall wind that threads through your clothes and hooks its claws in your chest.
In the distance, our little pumpkin patch glows inside the hotel courtyard with strings of lights blinking like sleepy stars. Voices drift from below, laughter caught in the edges of conversation. It’s all so alive. But up here, it’s as though I’m watching a party through glass.
I take a slow sip. Bitterness blooms first, cold like frost edging a windowpane. Then the lime drifts in, bright but fleeting, a dash of sweetness gone too soon. It settles in my chest, the taste numbing, reminding me that the woman of my dreams is less than a hundred feet away. And she’s nervous.
Ava’s not wrong for being so. I don’t come with the cleanest of reputations, and I’ve been putting on a show for so long that I forget what it’s like to beinit.
And now, the line between performance and reality blurred so fast for me, I can’t pinpoint the moment it disappeared—only that I wasn’t fully prepared when it did.
Unselfishly, I meant for the kiss to be marketing gold.
Selfishly, it was everything I’ve been craving for over a year.
All I felt was her.
All I tasted was her.
It wasn’t a kiss. More like an undoing. Of her. Of me. Of everything I thought I could control. It was the best damn thing I’ve ever felt. And the second her mouth met mine, she showed her hand. It was a risk that could’ve ended with a slap across my face or a knee to the balls. But Ava Bell kissed me back. Fingers threaded in my hair, her palm gripping my cheek, staking a claim.
When I stumbled upon her in that locker room—her voice breaking on my name, her body shattering under her own touch—I knew this wasn’t smoke and mirrors. This is fire. And it’s ours.
I’ll be damned if I let fear or reputation snuff it out. Come hell, high water, or every headline in the book world stacked against us—I’m not letting her go. Not now. Not ever.
The only problem is, she doesn’t like me. Not how I want her to. Which makes this whole fake dating, make-believe closeness thing, so damn frustrating.
I drain half my glass in one swallow. The burn is a welcome distraction. I should’ve apologized earlier when she told me she was mad. But like I told her,sorry, not sorry.
What started as a small crush for me—stubborn, and maddening—has only deepened over time. I fed it with banter, long-distance sparring, obsessively watching her videos, and categorizing her expressions.
The moment our eyes met for the first time in person, I knew…this isn’t a crush.
It’s destiny.
It’s inevitable.
It’s her.
Tonight, in that pumpkin patch, the air turned silent, and the world slowed down. Shealmostlet me in. There was a spark of vulnerability. She nearly accepted my offer, let herself believe I could be a safe space for her. Then she slammed the door to her emotions shut before I could wedge my foot in.
Ava Bell is a woman who’ll fight herself harder than she’ll ever fight me. She’ll armor up with sarcasm and call it healing. I’ve already waited a year. Watching from afar and wanting her in silence. What’s a little longer? She’ll come around. I have to keep showing up until she realizes I’m not the enemy.
I’m the ending she didn’t see coming.
I stand out on the balcony a minute longer, letting the cool air sting my cheeks, then head back inside, leaving the glass on the patio table. The warmth of the suite hits immediately. Soft lighting and stillness make the whole place appear as though it’s holding its breath.
I stand in front of Ava’s door, press my ear to the cold surface.Everything is still inside her room. No music, no TV, no sound of water running. Just quiet. I don’t knock on her door. I leave her be and retreat to my own.
Inside, I open my bag, pull out the portfolio holding Ava’s letters. My fingers grip the pen for a second before I start writing.
Bells,
I told you tonight that you don’t have to smile if it hurts.
