Page 61 of Going Viral for Christmas
“No, I don’t think you do, Bells.” The words thread under my skin like the chilled air curling through the open side window.
The carriage jolts again. I grab the edge of the seat. His handtwitches like he wants to reach for me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans a little closer, his shoulder brushing mine deliberately.
“So,” I say quickly, desperate for distance. “Do you plan on any more impromptu kisses tonight? Or was that strictly a one-time-for-the-cameras thing?”
Soren’s head tilts, and those stormy grays hold the reflection of the passing lights. “Depends.”
“On what?” My voice comes out thinner than I’d like.
“On whether you’d hate me for it.”
For the briefest, most intense second, I’m not sure what my answer would be. His gaze stays on me, intent, until I have to look away, pretending to be fascinated by a group of teenagers snapping selfies.
Fake, I remind myself. This is supposed to be fake. Just content. Survival untilFeast and Fiction.
My mind wanders back to what he said:
“The thing about fire, Bells. You can run from it, hide from it, try to smother it, but once it’s in you? You don’t get a choice. You burn.”
Heat lashes down my spine at the memory of that statement, and it makes me wonder,What would it feel like to step straight into that fire? Just once. To surrender to it? Would it burn me clean, forge me into something stronger, or leave me as nothing but ash?
Soren’s too much. Bold words. Shameless questions. The same confidence that makes the entire internet swoon. But beneath it, in these private moments with him, he’s a different man—one that doesn’t fit the Sword Daddy persona he’s perfected for the world.
That’s a problem, though. I don’t want to see it. Don’t want to like it. Don’t want to wonder who Soren Pembry is when the cameras aren’t rolling, and the banter isn’t staged.
But here I am, doing exactly that.
The carriage slows, wheels crunching against the curb as the driver calls out something about the “romantic dismount.” Kill me.
Soren swings out of the carriage first, shoes hitting pavement with unfair grace. He turns, arm extended, palm open, like this is an episode ofBridgertoninstead of a rom-com death trap with horses.
I hesitate, but eventually slide my hand into his. The second I startdown the teensy, metal ladder, my heel snags on the step, my ankle twists, my balance falters, and the world tilts.
Soren’s grip tightens, his other hand latches onto my waist, and he pulls me against him before I can eat asphalt in front of a row of gawking tourists.
My body slams into his broad, solid chest, smelling faintly of magical pine trees andhim.
“You okay?” he asks, his tone worried, and laced with an emotion that doesn’t feel fake at all.
I make the mistake of looking up. His gaze crashes into mine. Suddenly, there’s no Capitol dome, no clopping horses, no cameras waiting to catch a candid. Just his hands on me, my pulse sprinting, and a silence that feels like it’s keeping a secret we haven’t confessed yet.
Soren’s mouth curves into a sexy half-smile. “Should I start the ten-second countdown?”
The weight of his hands, the heat in his eyes, the memory of that first kiss—all of it makes the air knot in my throat.
I manage a slight shake of my head. “No.”
Soren lets me go, slowly, as though reluctant to hand me back to gravity, then tips the driver and gestures for me to start walking.
Next up on the evening ticket—the dinner cruise, which is precisely what you’d expect: white tablecloths, violinists playing a slightly off-key version ofAll of Me, and a photographer, who Renata definitely hired, is pretending to be a “staff member” for better shots.
I sit across from Soren at a table that’s a little too small, with a view of the Potomac gliding by in moody darkness. Candlelight reflects off the window, turning this whole setup into the opening credits of a CW drama.
He lifts his wine glass. “Cheers, Bells. To our love story.”
“Fake love story,” I correct.
“Right.” His brows knit, then he sets his glass down without taking a sip from it.
