Page 57 of Going Viral for Christmas
Ava hums. “I was the girl in the back of the class writing breakup scenes during math. My teachers thought I was depressed.”
“Were you?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Maybe a little. I never felt accepted by the other kids in school. Writing gave it shape.”
A moment passes. I lean on the counter, facing her. “So, why romance?”
She taps her nails on the counter once, twice. “I love the guarantee of a happily ever after and that they’re going to choose each other. Even if it’s complicated at first, and messy along the way.”
“And the spice?” I tease gently.
She glares at me over the length of her water bottle. “It’s called realism. Most adults have sex. Some even enjoy it.”
“Doyou?” I ask, shamelessly.
She chokes on the sip she just took. “Kind of personal, isn’t it?”
“You opened the door with all the ‘realism’ talk. This is me, trying to run through it.”
She sets the bottle down with a little too much force. “Well, realism also includes boundaries. Maybe try knocking first.”
“So that’s a yes, then? You enjoy it.” I prop my fist under my chin. “Man, Bells, youdo notwant me thinking about you enjoyingsex.”
We stare at each other for a long beat.
Tilting her head like she’s assessing a wild animal that sat down and asked politely for tea, she asks, “Is this flirting or some sort of elaborate literary chicken game?”
I grin. “Why not both?”
Bemused, Ava shakes her head and lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “If you try to turn this into some tortured enemies-to-lovers subplot?—”
“Too late. I already outlined it while you were finishing that sentence.”
She groans dramatically and snatches her water. “I need a stronger drink.”
“So that’s a yes?” I ask again. “You enjoy sex?”
Still no answer.
“Who inspires those scenes?” I press.
“Excuse you and your prying questions.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just…the way you write—you’ve either got a lot of experience or onehellof a vivid imagination.”
Her lips purse. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would actually. It’s fascinating.”
Ava scoffs. “You wouldn’t last two minutes inside my imagination. It’s broken glass and plot deadlines in there.”
“I’m not afraid of a little structure that might bite in the process.”
“Okay,” she shifts on the barstool, “to answer one of yourintrusivequestions, maybe a few people inspired them.”
Jealousy flares in my chest. I try to conceal it, but don’t do a very good job. “Lucky few.”
“To be completely honest,” she continues. “I watch a lot of porn and Passionflix to help me write those scenes.”
