Chapter 5 #3
Somehow, this is worse than the sword, the smirk, or the signature fan service swagger. He’s normal. Casual. Achingly touchable. Almost resembling a character right out of my books–one who reads literary fiction on their porch and owns too many flannel shirts.
It’s doing things. Inappropriate, unprofessional, wildly inconvenient things.
His hair is slightly damp, which means he took a shower.
Great, now I’m picturing him in the shower. Clothes off. Naked. Water beading down carved muscles.
Fisher eyes me skeptically. Soren tilts his head, waiting for an answer. I can’t speak. My brain is a traitor. My hormones are holding my sanity hostage as Soren’s gaze flicks to Fisher, then back to me.
“Please do join us.” Fisher gestures to the open chair with a shit-eating grin.
“Thanks.” Soren sits. “Didn’t want to interrupt anything private.”
“Not at all, we were just discussing Ava’s dramatic flair for denial,” Fisher replies cheerfully.
“Denial? Well, that doesn’t sound like her at all.”
My attention bounces between them. “Wow. A two-man improv set. How lucky am I?”
“Fisher Wallen.” He offers his hand to Soren across the space.
“Soren Pembry.” Their handshake is brief but weighted.
“She’s been singing your praises, by the way,” Fisher muses. “Can’t stop talking about your… sword.”
I choke on air. “Okay, nope. Absolutely not.”
Soren’s villain smirk is back. “I’m flattered. Not everyone appreciates true craftsmanship.”
“I appreciate silence,” I deadpan.
“Not my style,” Fisher says. “You know that.”
“Mine either,” Soren agrees.
I fold my napkin with a little more aggression than necessary. “You two should take this show on the road. Maybe open for a band called The Misogynotes.”
Fisher chuckles. “Careful, Soren, she’s spicy tonight.”
Soren’s dark yet amused gaze cuts to mine. “She writes spice, Fisher. It was only a matter of time before some of it rubbed off on her.”
I sneer at him.
“When I started roasting your books, I thought you were all cardigans and clean kisses.” Soren leans an inch closer. “But there’s filth hiding under that sweater dress, isn’t there?”
Fisher props his chin on his hand and sighs happily. “God, I love live theater.”
I ignore him. My eyes are set on the enemy. “You want to say that again with fewer contract violations?”
Soren’s grin deepens. “Not particularly.”
Fisher continues to listen, unbothered as always. He waves to the waiter for another drink. “Don’t get too close, lover boy. She bites.”
Soren smirks. “Even better.”
“Oh, I like him, Ava.”
“Thank you, Fisher.” Soren claps a hand on Fisher’s shoulder and squeezes. “How about you, Bells? Do you like me too?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Soren leans on the table with his forearms, then twists his neck to survey the gathering of influencers. “We should cause a little trouble while we’re here. You game?”
“No,” I say immediately. “You’re not staying.”
“Admit it,” he replies. “You’d be disappointed if I were anything other than trouble.”
To avoid looking at him, I stare down at my plate.
His trees and sweat scent from earlier now smells more like magical pine needles, sultry smoke, and some enchanted elixir that was probably brewed under a full moon, possibly by a sexy wizard from another realm with one hand on his hip and a prophecy on his tongue.
Jesus, I’m really leaning into the fantasy genre all of a sudden.
“What, no witty quip?” Soren teases. “Should I be worried?”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty.” I stab my fork into a roasted carrot. “But I left my ego-dismantling kit back in the hotel room.”
“Fisher was right, you are spicy,” Soren laughs, clearly enjoying himself. “Now I’m definitely staying.”
I exhale, shove a forkful of pork chop into my mouth, and chew.
A smile curls on Fisher’s lips, but he doesn’t comment.
“So, have you two been plotting my demise this whole time?” Soren asks, waving over our waiter.
“Not yet,” I answer. “Still weighing the pros and cons.”
Soren grins. “Let me know if I can help tip the scale.”
One side of Fisher’s mouth curves back because he can’t resist a golden opportunity for a dirty joke. The second Soren said “tip,” Fisher’s expression changed immediately. Now he’s halfway to drafting an entire erotica novella based on that one word.
I kick Fisher under the table, mentally screaming at him to focus, then I fix my face to resemble a fake sweet smile, turning my attention back to Soren. “We were discussing the plan.”
“Ah, yes. The romance of it all.” Soren savors the word as though he likes the taste of it.
Does it taste good in his mouth?
Fisher jumps in. “Well, I for one love what you two are doing. You know, I’ve always said Ava needs someone to shake her out of her tight little bubble. Someone tall. Charming. A little maddening.”
Soren raises a hand. “I’m available.”
They both laugh. I don’t. My vagina might file for emancipation, possibly with Fisher as her lawyer.
Another round of cocktails shows up per Soren. This one is an autumnal concoction with a cinnamon rim and a festive garnish.
Fisher insists we toast to “inevitable choices.” I drink mine faster than I should, which might explain why my edges start to blur a little.
Across the room, a few content creators pretend not to stare. One of them definitely snaps a pic. Another tilts her phone, acting like she’s getting B-roll footage for a post captioned “Enemies to Lovers in the Wild.”
Soren’s presence changes the air. It’s hotter now. Looser. With a sexy, fire-in-the-fireplace sort of vibe.
My pulse jumps when his knee brushes mine under the table, subtle, but it still shoots lightning straight up my spine.
Scenes start playing in my brain–one with a one-bed trope, then another with me getting completely railed on the oversized window seat in my hotel room while city lights glimmer in the background as if cheering him on, while that smirk of his presses against my skin.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does he affect me this way?
My phone buzzes, yanking me from the visual of my breasts pressed against the cool pane of glass, one of Soren's hands tangled in my hair while his other works my clit apart with devastating precision.
Group Chat with Fisher and Renata: PLOT THICCENS (named by Fisher, obviously)
Shifting in my seat, I swipe open the message from PR Queen Supreme:
Fisher, you’ve stirred enough. Time for the heroine and the hot guy to suffer in forced proximity. Shoo.
Fisher checks his phone, then grins so wide it could break a camera lens. “Well–” He rises. “—the goddesses of Spin and Sparkle are summoning me. You two enjoy your drinks and your mounting sexual repression.”
I want to die.
He winks. At me. At Soren. Maybe at the table itself. And then he’s gone. Leaving me alone. With him.
Soren twists to turn his full attention toward me. His gaze simmers, as if he’s trying to peel back layers I won’t give him permission to see. He’s making me deeply uncomfortable, but also a little feral.
No, the drinks are making me feral. Soren is making me tiptoe straight into an area I’m not ready for.
“So…” His smooth voice pitches so low and deep, my back arches slightly, “what were you thinking about just now in that pretty head of yours?”
The panic sets in. “Lighting,” I lie. “The...warm tones. Great ambiance. Excellent food. Stellar drinks.” I take a sip of mine.
It’s tart. Hints of cloves and spiced pear—comforting in theory, but strong enough to tear through the anxiety thickening in my gut.
Not strong enough to take the edge off, though.
“Oh, too bad. I could’ve sworn the flush creeping up your neck meant you were visualizing me... and you... doing very naughty things.”
My stomach flips. My ability to form proper words shuts off. “I-I wasn’t,” I stammer, too fast, too high-pitched.
Soren chuckles. “Well, I for one have thought about it. I thought about it five times today, actually. Once before the panel, twice during the panel. Again, in our little meeting with Camille and Renata. Then in the shower, right before I came down here.”
My brain is buffering. All I manage is a wide-eyed stare as my entire nervous system goes offline, then comes roaring back online, sparking up like I’ve licked an electric fence. The clatter inside my brain persists as my thoughts circle themselves.
Is he joking? Is he serious? Who says that out loud? Who says that to me? And why is my face suddenly ten degrees warmer?
He said shower.
He said shower.
Which means he…
I say nothing. How the hell can I?
Soren smirks. He knows exactly what he’s doing–throwing me way off base. He’s proud of it.
Well, fuck him very much. Soren Pembry will not get the best of me.
Squaring my shoulders, my voice becomes the same sugar-dipped blade it was at the panel. “Let me put this into words you’ll understand.”
Soren crosses his arms, bracing, a smile tap dancing across those perfect lips.
“I wouldn’t think about you if it meant ending a thousand-year curse and restoring my orgasms in the process.”
His grin widens, infuriatingly cocky. “Good thing curses aren’t real, huh? But orgasms? Those I can help with.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “In your dreams, Pembry.”
Soren laughs, the sound softer this time. “Relax, Bells. I’m messing with you.” He tilts his head. “You’re easy to ruffle. And might I add, you’re gorgeous when all riled up.”
A warm and traitorous feeling slithers through my chest. The compliment lands so unexpectedly, I don’t even realize I haven’t breathed in a few seconds.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Pushing my chair back, the loud scrape of the legs against the floor reverberates through the air.
I grab my purse sitting on the table and toss my hair over my shoulder as though I’m a woman who storms off in stilettos and high-budget confidence, not one who’s barely holding her composure together.
Inside, I’m a tornado of emotions—full-body static and a pulse that won’t quit. I don’t have a plan. I’m not thinking. I’m moving because right now, motion is the only thing keeping me from exploding in place.
Soren’s utterly confused. His brows pinch, brain rewinding the last sixty seconds, like a play tape he can’t untangle.
Little does he know, I’m caught in the same mental spiral, replaying every second of his compliment, my reaction, the heat in my chest, the way I bolted with every cell screaming, “Get the fuck out!”
I stand quickly. Before I can storm off, his hands grip my waist with a firm, careful touch, and he yanks me into him so his mouth is near my ear.
“There are dozens of influencers and press people in here right now,” he whispers, breath dancing across my skin. “They’re all about to pick up on your sudden departure. The angry scowl on your face. And the steam pouring from your ears. That’s not the image we signed a contract to portray.”
“Get your hands off me,” I whisper, my voice cold enough to crack glass.
Soren immediately releases me and slides his hands into his pockets. Jaw tight, concern feathers across his face as a flash of softness appears beneath his usual smirk. He wasn’t expecting me to sound so cold.
This charade feels very close to standing on a tightrope over a canyon with molten lava running through it.
My eyes sweep to the table and back again. “Charge everything to my room.”
Soren pauses, seemingly weighing his words, then replies with, “No worries, I’ll get the check. Your last book bombed, remember?”
A sound somewhere between a growl and a hiss escapes my chest–a primal noise reserved for when someone insults your work, your talent, and your dignity all in one casually devastating sentence.
My fists clench. If rage were flammable, the linen napkins would be ash. “How kind of you.”
I walk away. Don’t look back. I will not give that cocky asshole the satisfaction.
Even though every fiber of my being is currently debating between flight, murder, or channeling this rage into a revenge plot so satisfying it could launch a bestselling thriller series.
Maybe I should seriously explore switching genres.
Oh, and fantasizing about Soren? No longer on the table. Not after what he said just now. That visual has officially been redacted, deleted, and burned in effigy.