Page 65 of Going Viral for Christmas
That’s your big advice? Don’ttry?
No. DON’T PERFORM.According to her scary as fuck agent, Ava’s got a bullshit detector so sensitive, it probably goes off when you tie your boots. You want her to see you? Then actually let her.
You make it sound simple.
It is simple. It’s just not easy. Stop hiding behind your quips and sword jokes. Show her the guy who reads her books and still has eighth-grade poems memorized. Show her the guy who’d rather carry her bags than carry his ego.
…Jesus. Who writes your stuff? That was almost romantic.
Shut up. I’m not your ghostwriter. I’m your best friend telling you the obvious: if you want Ava Bell, then give her the one thing nobody else has—you.
And if she still hates me?
Then you’ll hurt. But at least you can walk away knowing you didn’t fake it.
AND YOU TRIED.
I leave my phone on the coffee table and head to Ava’s room, hovering outside her door for too long, fist half-raised like an idiot.
Finally, I knock.
There’s a faint shuffle of movement. When the door cracks open, Ava blinks at me through her glasses, hair piled on her head in the world’s most chaotic bun.
“Do you need something?” she asks, confused.
“No,” I say swiftly, then realize how weird and somewhat creepy I sound. “I mean…doyouneed anything?”
Her brows lift. “No.”
Silence swells between us for too long. I clear my throat. “Uh…how’s the manuscript coming along?”
She leans her shoulder against the doorframe, like she’s guarding the entrance. “Fine.”
Fine. Nothing more. Nothing less. The verbal equivalent of a locked gate.
Pursing my lips, I nod several times. “Cool, cool. That’s great. Okay, I don’t want to interrupt your flow.” I step back, hands shoving into the pockets of my gray sweatpants. “But I wanted to say thanks. For tonight. I had fun with you.”
Sparks flash in her eyes, quick and unreadable.
I push a little further. “I’ve been enjoying getting to know you, from behind the screen.”
That earns me a furrowed brow. But she doesn’t speak. So I retreat.
“Sleep well, Bells.”
I start down the hall before she can respond, leaving the words—and the weird, awkward weight of them—hanging in the air between us.
Real smooth, Pembry.
That’s all I can think as I stalk down the hall, hands jammed into my pockets as though that’ll keep them from trembling. Who knocks on a woman’s door at almost two a.m. to ask if she needs anything? A butler? A psychopath? Definitely not the guy trying to prove he’s more than a Dagger Daddy meme in leather pants.
She looked…soft, glasses slipping down her nose, hair a mess, sweater swallowing her frame. I caught her off guard, and instead of saying something worth remembering, I babbled on like I was asking about the weather. And,Sleep well, Bells?Really? That’s my closer? Weak. Limp. Verbal lukewarm tea.
By the time I get back to my room, I’m chewing on every word I didn’t say. All the lines I wanted to, but couldn’t push past my own tongue. My chest feels tight, restless. If I don’t get this out, it’ll rip me apart from the inside.
So, I do the only thing that has ever worked for me. I grab my leather messenger bag, yank out a piece of letterhead, and uncap a pen. Blank paper stares back at me, daring me to screw it up.
I don’t.
