Page 80 of Going Viral for Christmas
I drop the bags and suitcases in the corner of the room. “I doubt that very much.”
With a groan, she falls onto the bed, draping an arm over her eyes.
“I can sleep on the floor,” I offer.
“The extremelyhardhardwood floor?” she replies, rubbing her temples. “We’re adults. We’ll figure it out. Just… wear a shirt. No funny business.”
I nod solemnly. “What’s your definition of funny?”
Ava throws a pillow at my head, her aim sharper than it has any right to be. I catch the pillow mid-air, plop down on the bed next to her, shaking my head, grinning as a fool who wouldn’t trade this moment for anything else.
She scoots over, but I lean down so our faces are inches apart. “I promise to stay on my side. Unless, of course, you ask otherwise.”
She huffs a laugh. “Please. That’ll never happen.”
“Stranger things have,” I counter. “Like us, in this house, in this bed. Your mom was practically shoving me up the stairs with a neon sign that flashed, ‘Breed Here.’”
Ava’s groan could register on the Richter scale. “Do not say ‘breed’ in my childhood bedroom.”
“Fine. Multiply?”
She yanks another pillow and hurls it at me. This one actually connects. Square to the chest. I let it drop dramatically to the floor as if she’s slain me.
“Dead,” I gasp. “Killed by Ava Bell and her throw pillows.”
Her lips twitch, the faintest betrayal of a smile slipping through, and the tension in the air between us lifts. Just a hair. Just enough to tempt me.
I roll onto my back, hands folded behind my head, pretending not to notice how close she is, how her scent hovers, how the ceiling fan hums, holding its breath for us.
“Your family’s amazing, by the way.”
“They’re insane.” Ava runs her hand over the quilt. “But yeah… I know. Even though I complain.”
I hesitate, fingers tugging at the hem of my shirt. “You’re lucky.”
Her eyes flick to mine. She sits up. “What about your family? Are they as crazy as mine?”
I swallow, shift in place. “They’re—uh…not in the picture.”
Ava goes quiet, then says gently, “You don’t have to talk about it.”
“No, it’s fine. But being here? It’s a lot. In a good way.”
Her hand covers mine, and the touch sends a jolt of warmth straight up my arm. “You’re doing awesome. I’m impressed by your fake boyfriend acting skills. You make it seem real. They’re totally buying it. Which means they’ll be crushed when I tell them it’s over between us in January.”
She says it lightly, teasingly, but every syllable scrapes against me like a jagged blade.
I want to tell her it’s not acting. That none of this—her hand on mine, the warmth of her skin, how her smile turns this family circus into a dream I never want to wake up from—feels fake. I want to tell her I’m not performing. I’m not The Blade, not Dagger Daddy, not the internet’s favorite thirst trap. I’m not her viral rival. Or her fake boyfriend. I’m a man who’s finally found someone worth wanting with his whole damn soul.
But I don’t.
I squeeze her hand once, let go, and smile like I’m still in character. It’s not the right time to tell her any of that. If she knew the truth—that every second with her is the most real I’ve ever been—she’d run.
A yell from downstairs, “Somebody get the turkey hats!”
Ava sighs. “Get ready. You ain’t seen nothing yet, Pembry.” She stands. “And for what it’s worth…I’m glad you came.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
