Going Viral for Christmas

Chapter 1

One

AVA

You know what’s trending right now? My downfall.

Sponsored by pacing issues, heatless handjobs, and one very dramatic ShelfSpacer with editing software.

Recent Goodreads reviews include:

Cringe writing.

Painfully boring.

Flat characters.

And a third-act sex scene so anatomically confusing that someone made a diagram. With arrows. Labels. A red circle that read, “This is not where the clitoris lives.”

So yeah, I’m a little on edge.

My latest book, The Boyfriend Deadline, was supposed to be my swing at the big list. Instead, I overshot the heat and landed in humiliation instead. It’s flopping in real time—memed, mocked, and massacred—by readers who think my heroine deserves jail time for her metaphor choices.

In the cruelest twist of irony, I’m expected to smile through a live panel today with fantasy’s favorite weapon-wielding himbo, Soren “The Blade” Pembry.

Apparently, the internet isn’t satisfied with mocking the Queen of Steam’s latest disaster. It wants a front-row seat to my public execution.

No pressure.

Renata—my publicist and resident sadist—calls being here a “relatability rebrand.” She swears the solution isn’t another aesthetic reel or annotated-edge giveaway, but me getting “authentic.” Reader intimacy. Real-time charm.

So, here I am at The Great Booksgiving Festival.

AKA a hotel ballroom with pumpkin towers leaning like Pisa, lo-fi remixes of “thank u, next” by Ariana Grande, and a rogue turkey mascot gyrating in slow motion.

It’s like someone gave a former sorority social chair a corporate Amex and a line of cocaine, then shouted, “Make it festive.”

One more maple-spice latte and I’ll combust.

A squeal detonates across the room. I flinch, sloshing foam on my wrist, then turn.

There he is.

Soren Pembry.

My viral rival.

Six feet of swagger in leather boots and a face that makes readers forgive war crimes. A long, gleaming sword hangs at his hip—because subtlety died with chivalry.

The crowd parts like he’s biblical. He signs books, kneels for selfies, probably cures seasonal depression with a single wink, all while blessing the people with his cheekbones.

A cluster of women in Dagger Daddy Fanclub tees swarm him with their glitter pens and questionable boundaries.

One of them hands over her chest as though she’s offering up real estate.

Soren signs his name across her skin with a smile that could power a small city.

The turkey mascot nearly face-plants trying to watch.

Jesus! These people treat him like he’s a collectible action figure with limited shelf availability with an NSFW accessories pack.

Can’t say I blame them. On-screen, he’s hot. In person, he’s gravitational. Pure filth and fantasy. A morally gray villain who smirks from the shadows—a little dangerous, a whole lot cocky, and swoony enough to make you forget he poisoned a village three chapters ago.

I must say, I wasn’t prepared for this level of attractiveness. He’s clearly winning.

The crowd.

The algorithm.

The vibe.

All of it.

That realization sucks an even bigger dick than my sales chart.

Parked in my booth, doom scrolling, I’m one vent-blast away from becoming a puffball with trust issues and a caffeine dependency.

I hate him.

I hate his stupid shoulders—so broad they’re practically blocking out the sun, along with my common sense. His offensively symmetrical face. That mess of hair that somehow flops perfectly, like angels styled it.

Don’t get me started on the cocky beard shadow. Probably scratchy as hell. Bet it feels like sandpaper between your legs, makes you all red and raw.

Terrible.

Sipping my latte, I remind myself I don’t care. Not about his crowd. Or his rabid Fanclub. Definitely not about the way one girl purred when he handed her a signed bookmark, as if it were his hotel key.

Wait! Was it his hotel key?

Honestly, wouldn’t put it past him.

Soren’s gaze holds mine for a solid heartbeat.

For a fraction of a second—barely longer than a breath—the look he gives me strips away space and sound until it’s just the two of us, air charged.

It feels as though I’m no longer across the ballroom, but standing right in front of him. Vulnerable. Unsafe.

He winks. My lungs forget what to do. His mouth curves. It’s in that moment that I know I’m screwed. Or…want to be? What the hell?

No, Ava. No ma’am. One wink from Soren “Whoren” Pembry and my underwear is filing a workplace hazard complaint. Unsafe conditions. Zero protection. Immediate evacuation required.

“Think his sword dangles as far down as the one on his hip?” An ever-so-posh British accent curls against my ear, and I jolt, nearly sending a passing woman’s latte flying.

I whip around. “Fisher.”

“If the comment threads are to be believed, that mammoth sword everyone’s fawning over isn’t the only thing worth unsheathing.” Fisher’s tone drips with a conspiratorial glee. “Legend has it, Soren Pembry’s packing the kind of pants magic that derails plot lines and bankrupts pelvic floors.”

I choke on foam. “Oh my God, stop talking.”

“I would, but look at him.” Fisher presses his lanyard to his chest, starry-eyed, as if he’s witnessing the second coming of Henry Cavill. “He’s signing that woman’s tit with finesse. A signature flourish. I’m jealous.”

Fisher Wallen, everyone. Personal assistant—also known as chief enabler, snarky therapist, the couture brooch holding my whole shit show of a life together. He grins like he’s delivered a Shakespearean sonnet instead of an R-rated observation.

I look back over my shoulder. Sure enough, he’s scrawling his name across some woman’s boob. His ridiculously full lips curve as he caps the Sharpie.

“Unprofessional,” I mutter.

“Said the woman making moon-eyes.”

“I am not making moon-eyes.”

“Please. Your pupils dilated. You blinked in slow motion. The next step is spontaneous ovulation.”

“It’s the lighting.”

Fisher retrieves a sugar cookie, shaped like an open book, from his cross-body bag. He takes a bite, talks through the crumbs. “Also, you’re blushing. So you’re either into him…or just plain horny. Do you need a moment? A privacy curtain?”

Classic Fisher. Sharp as a diamond stiletto.

Baby-faced. Merciless. He’s been my mainstay since my first indie signing a year and a half ago, where I sat behind a table no one noticed.

Fisher, then a volunteer, declared it a “tragic waste of pink lipstick and raw talent,” redecorated the booth, hollered at strangers, and sold a hundred books before lunch.

I hired him on the spot. Best impulsive decision I’ve ever made.

Now, I have an agent, a tiny but mighty backlist of USA Today bestsellers, and a brand that primarily runs on a mix of sweet romance, spice, and sheer delusion.

One of Soren’s large hands is steady on the hilt of his sword while people practically swoon in line to touch it.

“I’ve never been into the brooding, cosplay types.” Not typically, anyway.

“Sure,” Fisher draws the word out. “And I hate gossip along with all things sugar.” He takes another bite.

“All I’m saying is, Soren Pembry is one fine specimen.

No wonder the line wraps around the ballroom.

He’s literary lust in human form. I bet his special editions come scented with pine, musk, and male validation. ”

My eyes slide back to where Soren is standing tall, like a king ruling over his kingdom. Fisher’s right. The line to see him coils across the ballroom, vibrant and alive.

Mine…not so much. It wilted the second he walked in, as though every reader suddenly remembered who they really came for. My shoulders slump.

“Flirting is a blood sport to him. He probably has a groupie rotation synced to his release schedule.” Fisher perks up. “Do you think there’s a sign-up sheet for that on his table? Or like... a QR code? Maybe a Google Form with checkboxes for preferred positions and safe word creativity?”

“Gross.” I steal his cookie, snap it in half, and chew my frustration.

Fisher licks sugar off his thumb. “So, are you all set for the Genre Feud?”

“No.”

“You’ll be brilliant,” he says, grinning like he knows exactly how not brilliant I’ll be.

“The two of you together—in the flesh—will kill the internet. Honestly, after a year of online sparring, this feels less like professional rivalry and more like the longest foreplay in history. The sexual tension in your comment threads alone could power a small country.”

“What we have is far from foreplay. It’s loathing.”

“It’s lust.”

I roll my eyes so hard they nearly detach. “You’re deranged.”

“Mhm. Then explain why you’re staring at that man like you want to suck his soul out through his dick. Because honestly, same babe. Same.” Fisher bites his lip. Oh God, he’s visualizing it.

I swat his shoulder. “Stop playing it out in your head.”

“Can’t stop, won’t stop.” Fisher crosses his arms. “It’s not like you haven’t thought about it.”

My mouth drops open. “I haven’t.”

Fisher arches a brow. “Luv, you’ve been staring at him since he walked in here.”

“I’m observing. Sizing up the competition.”

Fisher barks a laugh. “Sizing up, huh? Judging by the way you keep sneaking glances at his…sword, I’d say you’re not observing, you’re measuring.”

“I’m not!”

“Well, why not? The two of you together are enemies-to-lovers crack. Everyone in this room knows it. Act on it. Go over there and rub that magic sword, babe. Do it for the people. Do it for me.”

As if he heard us, Soren looks up. Stormy grays rake over every inch of my body in a sweep so slow and thorough it should come with a parental advisory.

He stares as though he’s got me pinned against the nearest wall, dress hiked up, whispering something indecent in that deep, gruff yet somehow smooth voice of his.

Heat soars straight to where it absolutely shouldn’t. Lower belly. Inner thighs. And—

That particular traitorous place clenches. Typical. She’s never met a bad idea she didn’t want to sit on—Soren’s cock included, which, if rumor threads are true, could probably be classified as a public safety hazard.

Nope. Delete. Backspace.

I shake the thought away so hard, I nearly sprain a neck muscle. God, I need holy water. Or at least another latte.

Fisher raises a brow. “You just disassociated into a sexual fantasy sequence, didn’t you?”

I school my face into innocence.

He retrieves a water bottle from his bag and unscrews the top. “Did it involve brooding, biting, or begging?”

“…shut up.”

“Oh my, Lord! It was all three. You hussy.”

I sneer at him.

“I’ll repeat myself. You should go for it.”

“Go for what? His book? His fanbase?”

“His unbelievably well-defined forearms, which could double as murder weapons. All of the above, really. Preferably while riding him into oblivion.”

“Gross, Fisher.”

His lips twitch. “What? The heat in your eyes tells me you’re one well-placed comma away from a sexual awakening.”

“You’re fired.”

“You threaten, but I know too much.”

“Ugh. Rescinded.”

Fisher drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Sooo…Renata not-so-subtly suggested I try to snag a photo of you—or, God willing, a video—with Soren to ‘play into the rivalry,’ especially since every time he so much as breathes in your general direction, your book sales mysteriously spike.”

I shrug him off. “Not happening.”

“Suit yourself–”

“Ms. Bell?” A young woman with a bright smile and barely contained excitement approaches, wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard. “Hi! I’m Jessica, one of the event coordinators. We’re ready for you for the panel. Just follow me.”

My stomach drops to my toes.

Right.

The Genre Feud.

Romance vs. Fantasy.

Me vs. Him.

Cinnamon rolls and soulmates vs. sword-swinging alpha types who wouldn't know healthy communication if it stabbed them.

This whole thing seems fun in theory—less so when you’re the one about to walk into the arena.

“Great!” I force a smile.

“Off you trot.” Fisher shoos me away. “March into that panel and give him hell and a half-chub.”

With a groan, I follow Jessica, each step heavier than the last as I make my way toward the one and only Soren Pembry, who is drinking me in with a grin that could end nations.

This panel isn’t just content. It’s my chance to prove I belong here—that one bad release doesn’t make me irrelevant. That I’m more than the algorithm’s latest casualty.

That I’m somebody.

Problem is, I have to pull it off beside him. The author whose fantasy books top every list. Whose fandom treats his sword like it’s Excalibur. Whose smirk is a direct threat to my sanity.

Lord help me. I’m about to endure a fan-fiction trope in front of a hundred people and a livestream audience.

Shoving every tremble, flicker of doubt, and the ache of insecurity deep, deep down, I step in front of The Blade himself, wearing my invisible mask of confidence.

Chin up. Smile nice. Shoulders back.

Show them fire.

Because no one—especially not Soren Pembry—gets to know what I’m actually feeling inside.