Page 93 of Going Viral for Christmas
The word surges through me—warm, electric. Dangerous.
I turn back to my mother. “I don’t talk about his books because I haven’t read them.”
She appears genuinely offended. “Why not? They’re literary masterpieces.”
Literary masterpieces?My mother is comparing Soren’s work to books like the Great Gatsby? Sure, if Gatsby railed Daisy in a cave and wore leather pants.
My head tilts. “What about mine?”
She waves a hand. “Oh, honey. Yours are cute. They’re like Hallmark with cussing...and fucking.”
I spit out my juice. Soren covers his mouth to hide his grin.
Oh, this is hilarious to him? Well, fuck him very much.
“It’s not fair,” my mother adds, “or good for relationships when one partner does stuff and the other doesn’t. You need to read at least one of his books.”
“He read mine to poke fun at it.”
Soren clears his throat. “Actually,” his voice is calm and certain, “I’ve read all your books.”
Everything screeches full stop. My fork hovers in midair. Even Fisher quits chewing.
My mom’s eyes widen. “You have?”
Soren nods, eyes on me. “Every single one.”
I’m stunned into silence. Everyone, including my man-of-few-words father, is swooning.
What the fuck?
I bolt up. “I need to... get something.” Grabbing my phone off the counter as an excuse, I rush up the stairs, cheeks burning so hot I’m surprised no one comments.
I don’t stop until I’m inside the bathroom, the door locked behind me. Only then do I let out a shaky breath, hands braced on the sink.
The silence in here lets the weight of what happened at the table settle in.
He read them all?
Every single one?
The man I’ve labeled as my fake boyfriend, my online nemesis, the one person I was so sure couldn’t possibly understand me—read every single one of my books.
That’s the most intimate thing anyone’s ever done for me. My heart attempts to melt inside my chest, but I quickly ice it back over.
Get a grip, Ava.He read them so he could roast me withdetailed accuracy. No other reason other than that.
Soren definitely didn’t read them because he cares. Not because he might actually have feelings for me.
Maybe I’m notknownas the long-haul type, but I don’t survive tarot readings, turkey hats, the whiplash you’re dishing out, and family for just anyone.
Guess we can add reading every single one of my books to that list.
Pulse pounding, throat tight, I stare at myself in the mirror. I need air. I need space. I need to not develop feelings for someone who’s nothing more than a stunt. And a fuckboy.
But all Ifeelis him. His voice in my ear. The weight of his gaze. How my stomach flips when he looks at me like I’m the story he’s been trying to write his whole damn life.
What the hell am I doing?I’ve locked myself in a bathroom, hiding like a teenager, because Soren Pembry turned around and shattered the lineIdrew between truth and fiction.
