Page 76 of Going Viral for Christmas
Fourteen
SOREN
The ride into Salem is a kaleidoscope of color and nerves, and, in my case, a mental battlefield of horniness and restraint.
I’ve spent the past three hours with ear buds in, flipping between different porn sites and Passionflix adaptations—thanks to Ava—and I’m taking notes for the spice scenes in my current WIP like a diligent scholar of smut.
The research has been solid—cinematic thrusts, poetic moans, a truly inspirational use of whipped cream—but every time I manage to get Captain Pembry to stand down, I glance up and see Ava in the front seat, then he perks right back up.
Looking beautiful, she’s riding shotgun, haloed in sunlight. She’s the freakin’ goddess of romantic tension. Neck exposed. Lip caught between her teeth. Fingers tapping on her thigh. I’ve caught myself staring at her several times. She’s seen me doing it several times, too. Each time, our eyes connect. Those eyes of hers don’t know the power they hold. I’m a weak man when it comes to Ava Bell.
The rental SUV buzzes beneath us as Fisher drums along toMr. Brightsideblaring from the speakers. It might be his personal anthem. He’s at the wheel, sunglasses on, belting out every word with theconfidence of a man born for the stage, or a karaoke bar. Does Salem have one? That would be interesting.
Once we enter Salem, I take my earbuds out, close out the porn, and watch the town unfurl like a storybook—white picket fences, amber-leafed trees, and porches dressed for fall with garlands and gourds.
Ava leans forward, arms resting against the dash, posture relaxed in a way that tells me this place lives in her bones.
I gaze out the window. I don’t have to roll it down to know the air is different here. Cleaner. Even in the confines of the car, I taste it—coastal sea salt, rustling leaves, life unburdened. Obviously, it’s never been forced to carry the weight of pretending.
We pull into a gravel drive flanked by towering oaks and a front porch that’s been lovingly decorated for a Thanksgiving special. Wind chimes jingle, and two pumpkins perch beside a welcome mat that says:HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS.
The phrase feels less like a cute farmhouse quip and more like a multigenerational warning label, dipped in nostalgia and marinated in family history.
It might as well say,YOU DON’T BELONG HERE, PEMBRY.The thought flits through my mind before I can smother it to death, unwelcome and jagged—but true. I can’t help it. My past has a way of hitching a ride, even when I’m sure I’ve left it behind in a different zip code.
“Here we go,” Ava says with a tight smile.
The three of us pile out of the car, and the second my boots hit the gravel, the chill hits me too—crisp, edged with spice. It smells like November should.
I’m grabbing the last suitcase from the back when the front door swings open.
Before Ava even makes it up the porch steps, a woman who could easily be her older sister rushes out, arms wide. “My babies!”
Ava groans. “Mom, please.”
Too late. The woman has already engulfed her daughter in a hug, then whirls to face Fisher, who lifts her off the ground and spins her in a circle.
Then it’s myturn.
“Ava, introduce me to this strapping piece of literary meat,” her mom commands.
Ava pinches the bridge of her nose. “Mom, stop.”
Her mother waves her off.
“Mom, Soren Pembry.” Ava gestures to me. “Soren, my mother, Mandy.
Momma Mandy yanks me in for a hug. A mix of apple pie and Chanel No. 5 swirls up my nose.
“I’ve read all your books,” she supplies. “The pirate one drained my battery supply.”
“Mom!” Ava barks in horror. “What the hell?”
Her mother releases me. “I’m sorry. I’m just so excited to meet you.”
I flash her an appreciative grin even though I should probably feel a little awkward here. I’m used to women saying outrageous things about my books. And me.
Still, hearing it from the mother of the woman I’ve got a very real thing for? That’s a little different.
