Chapter 3 #3
The room rustles from Soren’s latest verbal crime against my sanity. I’m hanging on by the frayed thread of my dignity. Somewhere offstage, I’m positive my publicist is popping Tums like candy. Wonder if she has extra?
Trying to salvage what’s left of this panel, I clear my throat again—because the first time didn’t cut it—and shoot Soren a withering glare that only makes his villainous smirk spread further across his face.
“Alright.” I reach for the mints, fingers trembling as though I’m defusing a bomb. “What if we tried something wild and talked about books?”
A few scattered chuckles ripple through the audience.
Soren makes a grand show of zipping his lips. “Scout’s honor.”
I huff a laugh. “You were never a scout.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Moving on,” I cut in, before that becomes a whole thing.
“Okay,” Shirley takes back control. “This next question is a more serious one.”
“We’ll behave.” I smile.
“No promises,” Soren says.
Shirley waves him off. “What kind of world do you build in your stories?”
The change in the air is immediate. Still warm. Still very much alive. But calmer. More focused.
I skim the audience—the readers clutching annotated paperbacks, wearing homemade merch, holding pieces of our books in their hands as if they’re treasures.
“The aesthetics at this event, the decorations, they’re exactly the world I try to create in my books.” My answer is all heart.
Soren watches me—quiet, curious—and for one suspended moment, the tension between us fades.
“Stories that hit like emotional comfort food,” I continue, “all the feels, with a happy ending guaranteed.”
There’s a softness in the silence that follows.
Then—
Soren snorts.
My head whips in his direction. “What?”
“I’m wondering if we’re talking about the same kind of happy ending.” He tries and fails to suppress a smile.
My jaw drops. “Oh. My. God.”
“Hey,” he replies with mock innocence. “Reader satisfaction is important. I support all forms.”
There’s a collective sigh, the front rows are full of giggles, and one very dramatic, “Marry me,” from a reader hugging a special edition of one of his books.
Shirley grins awkwardly, fanning herself with her clipboard. “My, my, Soren. You certainly know how to get the crowd going.”
“I aim to please.”
Oh, I bet you do.
“Well, let’s dive in with another question. Ava, this is for you.”
I sit straighter.
“What’s the appeal of a holiday romance to you?”
Pausing to consider what the best words for this would be, I think through all the scenarios Soren could use against me.
Finally, I answer with, “It’s about hope. Kissing under mistletoe. People falling in love. Not in spite of the conflict around them, but because of it.”
Soren fake yawns.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snip at him. “Is a heartfelt connection boring you, Soren?”
“Not at all.” He straightens in his chair. “I love when epic love stories come with gingerbread cookies and a snowball fight.”
“I’ll have you know a snowball fight is a time-honored metaphor for intimacy.”
Soren nods solemnly. “Nothing screams passion like concussions and frostbite.”
“Well, Soren,” Shirley turns toward him, “that leads us into a question we have for you. What’s the fantasy take on holiday stories?”
He folds his hands, just like I imagine a biggity little sorcerer might. “Give me a solstice curse. A kingdom at war with itself. Star-crossed lovers hiding in a frozen forest with only a dagger and a shared cloak. Doom and destiny...that’s for me.”
“You know,” I say sweetly. “Swords and daggers, it’s all starting to feel a bit Freudian.”
“Funny, coming from the girl who uses ‘throbbing tension’ excessively.”
“Sir, I will have you know, I use meticulously crafted, emotionally secure sensuality, thank you very much. Classy smut. Grown-up spice. I know those two words are hard for you to relate to.”
“Smut and spice? Oh, Ava, I relate to those very well.” That wicked fucking grin spreads across his face again.
“Funny.” I sneer at him. “But I was referring to classy and grown-up.”
“Right. Well, since you brought up the smut and spice. To clarify, you mean the kind you pretend you’re reading for the plot while your tingly girl parts are composing thank-you notes to your bedside drawer’s top shelf, correct?”
The crowd erupts in a fit of laughter. The conversation spirals from there. We debate elves versus werewolves, the legitimacy of magical coffee shops as a viable battle strategy, and whether baking cookies counts as a love language.
We argue over the superiority of hayride meet-cutes versus enchanted-sword soulmate bonds, and a woman from the back yells, “What about Santa smut?”
Neither of us knows how to respond to that. My voice is bright and biting, seasoned with a healthy dose of nervous laughter. His is shadows and seduction.
And then another woman in the audience calls out, “How about Romantasy?”
Soren groans theatrically. “Ah, yes. The genre where emotional longing appears, wielding a destiny map, and magical powers serve as metaphors for unspoken feelings. It’s interesting, the villain always knows when to strike.
And the sex is a little too good to be healthy, where you don’t know if you’re about to be claimed or cursed, and half the time someone’s growling ‘touch her and die’ before burning off a corset with that metaphoric magic I mentioned earlier. ”
The room cackles.
“No offense, Ava.”
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I shrug. “None taken. I’m thrilled some fantasy authors are finally discovering what romance readers have known all along.”
“Oh?” he challenges. “What might that be?”
“That emotional stakes matter. That sexual tension doesn’t need to be buried under fifty chapters of Elvish prophecy.”
“Ouch,” he muses. “That hit harder than my MMC’s betrayal in the Court of Thirst and Thorns.”
“Time for a few rapid-fire questions,” Shirley announces, shuffling through the pages on her clipboard. “First up—favorite writing snack?”
Soren: “Whiskey and Goldfish.”
Me: “Trader Joe’s peppermint bark and caramel blondie latte.”
“Writing music?”
Me: “Phoebe Bridgers–haunting lyrics, soft emotional destruction.
Soren: “War drums. And occasionally Hozier.”
“Your characters are trapped in a cabin during a snowstorm. Who confesses their love first?”
Me: “The woman, because she’s emotionally mature.”
Soren: “The man, because she threatened to stab him with a candy cane.”
“Enemies to lovers or friends to lovers?”
Me: “Friends. With unresolved tension.”
Soren: “Enemies. With knives and one bed.”
“What’s your most-used word during a sex scene?”
Me: “Clit.”
Soren: “It’s ‘moan.’ Followed closely by ‘thrust.’”
“Last one!” Shirley says eagerly. “What do you think your co-panelist’s most quirky habit is?”
Me: “Soren treats his swords like they’re pets. Probably snuggles them.”
Soren: “Of course I do. They have feelings, Ava.
“And Soren, what do you think Ava’s might be?”
“I bet she uses oversized mugs for her coffee. Probably has animal shaped ones, possibly one that’s a Highland cow.”
The audience howls. Shirley wipes away tears of laughter.
My skin heats under the weight of Soren’s attention on me. Then—damn it—there it is. A flash of charged eye contact. His smile loses its bite, and a gentler, more intimate expression blooms in its place.
Soren’s tongue flicks across his bottom lip, and my entire body commits treason.
My core clenches, trying to send a flare signal. The bees in my stomach? Yeah, not anxiety. Desire.
How dare my libido clock in after sitting dormant for so long. And for him of all people? I blame the drought. I haven’t… You know… done anything in a while.
Soren Pembry—with his carved-by-chaos cheekbones and perfectly trimmed facial hair—is the last person I should be reacting to in this way.
Yet, here I am, one smolder away from applying to his Dagger Daddy Fanclub.
Oh, God! Stop, Ava.
“Ava, you okay?” Shirley asks, yanking me from my spiral.
Thankfully, I recover quickly and nod. Years of moderating Q&As while crumbling internally have made me a professional.
Soren’s watching me even closer now, like he’s seeing beyond the veil.
His expression softens. “You know, Ava. Showy banter aside…” His tone holds no heat, but something startlingly sincere.
“When I read The Lumberjack’s Love Letters after that vampire video I did, I actually stayed up half the night finishing it. ”
“Soren, it’s not like you to roast the same book twice. My lumberjack must’ve made quite the impression on you.”
“He did. The ending—phew.” He gives a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, and for a few seconds, he’s not Soren Pembry, sword-wielding sex symbol. He’s a man talking about a book that hit him somewhere deep. “It made me realize that the world could use more heroes like yours.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I mean, men who fight with their hearts instead of their fists, who believe in things like love and that it can conquer anything. Men who make good on their promises and show up—despite the odds. Despite everything.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “What realm did I just cross into?”
Soren chuckles. “I’m being completely genuine. I swear on the Dagger Daddy Fan Club.”
A wave of high-pitched screams rings out.
My mouth forgets how to form words. Whatever that was, it wasn’t for the crowd. It wasn’t for content.
That was for me.
I’m utterly unprepared for it.
I will my pulse to calm down, and the flush in my cheeks not to give me away.
“Oh. My. God.” Shirley clutches her mic like it’s the bouquet at a wedding. “You two are the swooniest thing this convention has ever seen.”
Soren’s eyes lock on mine. “I certainly hope so.”
Something in the air changes. I feel it in my spine. In my knees. In the places I shouldn’t.
Someone yells, “Ava Bell is a Sword Whore.”
Soren smirks at the crowd. “You have to buy the special edition for that scene.”
I roll my eyes. Except, I’m smiling.
The panel ends in a standing ovation. Book bloggers rush the stage. People wave copies of our books. Soren autographs a leather-bound spell book someone shoved in front of him. I pose with a woman dressed as my main character, complete with tinsel in her hair.
It’s insane. It’s magical. And I’m completely overstimulated.
Slipping backstage to catch my breath, I hide behind the stack of swag boxes, trying to slow my pulse.
“You okay?”
Soren appears, one hand on that stupid sword, the other grazing over the thick stubble on his jaw. He leans against the wall, his silver eyes start trying to decode me.
Good luck with that.
I plant my hands on my hips and nod. “Yeah. Why?”
“You ran off.” Soren continues watching me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You were a good sport out there,” he offers.
“Thanks,” I manage, voice an octave too high. “You were… tolerable.”
While my lungs fight to breathe, my brain crashes out like someone dumped my hot cider into its wiring.
Who uses tolerable anymore? Literally no one.
I want to crawl into a pile of signed paperbacks and disappear forever.
Soren’s head tilts as if trying to decide whether I’m adorable or unwell.
I’ll save him the trouble. I’m unwell. Very much unwell.
“You know, the crowd ate us up out there.” He moves toward me. I retreat backward. “We make a good team.”
“We…are not a team.” My back hits the wall. “That...that was strategic opposition. Nothing else.”
He’s standing right in front of me now. “Funny how strategy looks a lot like chemistry.”
His gaze dips to my mouth. Before I can reply, my publicist barrels backstage, waving her phone at us. She’s either discovered a new planet or a disaster.
Renata’s not alone. Another woman is with her—tall, severe, and wearing the shade of dark lipstick that means business, and holding a tablet. Both of them are grinning in a way that makes me deeply worried.
“You two?”Renata points at us both. “Viral gold.”
“They’re calling it enemies-to-lovers in real time,” the other woman adds, flipping the screen to show us ShelfSpace flooding with clips. “Bell and The Blade is trending.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Who are you?”
“Camille,” Soren answers, “My manager.”
Camille taps a pen against the tablet. #BellandtheBlade is in bold. In italics. In stitched-on-a-throw-pillow font.
“It’s not just a hashtag,” she says. “It's a generational movement. A siren call to the masses. A viral juggernaut rolling through ShelfSpace with reckless abandon, taking no prisoners.”
Confused, my brow furrows. Soren cranes his neck to look at the chaos on the screen.
“So,” Renata takes over. “We have an idea.”
Soren crosses his arms. “Should I be scared?"
Bracing for the worst, I swallow.
They glance around to ensure nobody’s listening.
Then, in a hushed tone, they say it.
Together.
“Fake. Dating.”