Chapter 9 #2
An hour and several photos later, Soren and I are walking in the pumpkin patch under a canopy of fairy lights as dusk settles over the courtyard, crisp fall air thick with the scent of cinnamon and cider.
I’ve calmed down a little. Thankfully, the adrenaline from the kiss has faded to a low simmer, and my heartbeat has returned to a normal pace. I’ve stopped mentally replaying that moment in the locker room like I’m studying film footage from a car crash and a sex dream at the same time.
Mostly.
Now, as I walk beside him through the faux-rustic fantasy Camille designed, something feels...different. Less performative. More tangible.
It could be the quiet between us, or the fact that his fingers keep brushing mine, testing what I’ve dubbed the Contact Theory—that little experiment where a man pretends he isn’t trying to hold your hand.
Still, every accidental touch is actually a question.
It would be sweet any other time. Harmless, even.
But with Soren, it feels like a fuse waiting to catch fire.
His attention is on the families nearby, the kids in matching scarves, the older couple sharing a caramel apple, the man walking his golden retriever.
What would this scene feel like if it weren’t staged? If the camera wasn’t watching? If the lights weren’t for show, and this were a real date?
“You okay?” Soren asks softly, eyes still forward.
I shake those previous thoughts loose. “Yeah, just taking it all in.”
He hums a low note, not fully buying that answer, but isn’t going to push. I’m glad. If he did, I’m not sure what would come out of my mouth.
The two of us fall into step again. Oddly comfortable. And that might be the craziest part of all.
Camille, Renata, and Fisher trail behind, giving the illusion of privacy while still managing the optics.
And Soren and I? We’re on.
Walking beside me, he tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat. We pass rows of pumpkins stacked high on hay bales and kids running around, hiding behind corn husks and scarecrows.
I’m tense once again. My smile stiffens at every click of a camera lens. It’s like a countdown to implosion.
Soren nudges a tiny pumpkin with the toe of his boot. “That one kind of reminds me of you. Compact. Seasonal. Outrageously cute.”
I snort despite myself. “You calling me small?”
“I’m saying you pack more impact than most of the oversized ones put together.”
He’s teasing. There’s a gentleness in the way he says it—a softness I hadn’t expected.
Pausing at a cider stand set up beside a decorative fire pit, Soren orders two and hands me mine before I can speak. The tension in my shoulders doesn’t entirely disappear.
Settling on a bench near a fire pit, warm mugs in hand, I glance around, making sure no one’s directly pointing a lens at us.
“So,” he starts after a beat, “is this the weirdest fake date you’ve ever had?”
“It’s the only fake date I’ve ever had.”
“Mine too.”
Silence lingers.
My mind jumps back to the Genre Feud when Soren told me he read The Lumberjack’s Love Letters. That moment’s been gnawing at me ever since, chewing through every wall I swore was indestructible. I’ve tried to write it off, to file it under “irrelevant nonsense,” but it keeps coming back.
“Why did you read my book?” I finally ask, even though I already know this question has claws.
Swirling his cider, his gaze fixes on the firelight. “The guy in it... I saw a lot of myself in him, except, you know, with more restraint and less flannel.”
A nervous laugh escapes me.
“What inspired his character?” Soren inquires.
I hesitate, my response snagging like fabric on barbed wire.
“He was based on someone I used to lo—” I choke the word back, because even after all this time, it still tastes like rust and regret.
The memory of it hovers anyway, daring me to set it free, but I bite down hard, refusing. “He’s just a made-up book boyfriend.”
My chest twists. On so many levels, that answer is true. The man in my book isn’t real. Neither is his inspiration. He’s a wish—a dream stitched together in the dark—of someone I needed to exist.
But wishes don’t come true. They blur lines and make monsters look like miracles.
I don’t look at Soren. I can’t. If I meet his eyes, he’ll see the jagged, unfinished edges of me—the parts I’ve spent years patching over. I don’t want to share that part of my story with him.
“I know you’re lying,” he calls me out. “So, what happened?”
He wasn’t who I thought he was. And he didn’t love me back. “He wanted other things.” Women, to be more specific.
Soren’s gaze snaps to mine as though I’ve said something blasphemous. “Well, he’s a fucking idiot.”
The air stalls between us. It’s been almost two years, and still, there’s a part of me that flinches when I talk about it out loud. That relationship carved its name into my bones. Don’t mistake that for poetic. It was more like scar tissue.
I’ve told myself countless times I’m over it. That he no longer controls me. I’m stronger now. But somehow, hearing Soren call him a fucking idiot makes my insides ache. I guess there’s a soft place there I didn’t realize was still bruised.
“And now?” he asks, quieter this time, like the answer matters to him.
“Now, I write about the guy I wish existed instead. It’s safer that way.”
Soren studies me for a second, brows lifting slightly. “That’s kind of devastating, Bells.”
Shrugging, I stare into my cup. “Yeah, well. So is dating in real life.”
Another pause. The hiss and pop of wood from the fire and the occasional bell of laughter from across the patch fill the silence.
Soren leans forward, cradling his cup in both hands, fingers tapping a slow, distracted rhythm against the paper sleeve. He draws in a breath. The crease between his brows tells me he’s weighing the thoughts in his head, rolling them around on his tongue before deciding whether or not to let it go.
That tongue. The one that did wicked, swirly things with mine during our kiss. My lips recall how it moved, with confidence and hunger. An uninvited thought slinks in: If that’s what his tongue can do in my mouth… what kind of magic could it work lower?
Heat floods my cheeks. I clear my throat. “What about you? How come the hottest ShelfSpacer ever to live is single?
Soren huffs a laugh. “I’m single by choice.”
“So much magical pussy, so little time?” I quip, lifting my cup in mock salute. “The burden of the chosen one.”
His jaw tenses, and that casual lean he had a moment ago is gone. Soren shifts in his seat. He sets his mug down on the bench with more force than necessary. Long fingers flex once. He’s tamping something down. It’s subtle, yet unmistakable.
“Am I wrong?”
“Yeah, you are. I’m not some horny asshole who collects conquests for power points.” His voice is suddenly less amused. “That’s not why I’m here. And for the record? If I wanted a harem, I wouldn’t be wasting my time sitting here with someone who views me as just another trope.”
The words sting. I deserve them.
I try to laugh, brush it off, but the sound catches in my throat. Soren managed to open up a sealed door inside me with a tiny crack, but I slammed it shut with a cheap line. Because that’s what I do, make jokes when things start to get heavy.
“I’m sorry–” I start.
“It’s exhausting sometimes. Not gonna lie.” There’s no exaggerated delivery. Only soft and stripped-down honesty. He’s not putting on a show right now.
And I feel like a total shit.
Turning toward him, I open my mouth to apologize again, but he silences me by adding, “I’m not trying to earn sympathy points from you right now.”
I pause before replying, “I didn’t think you were.”
His eyes set on a couple holding hands. “If I… if we’re going to do this, we should be honest with each other.”
I don’t speak. I listen.
“I’m not into lying either, Bells. Even though I do it every goddamn day for people who want the version of me they make up in their head.” He’s quieter now, thumb and forefinger rubbing together, slow and absent. I’m surprised by this new fissure in his usual cocky veneer.
Exhaling through his nose, he continues, “They demand that persona. The flirt. The fantasy they follow on ShelfSpace. I created a glossy, thirst-trap book boyfriend to build a brand. It worked.” He shrugs.
There’s no pride in it. “I’m a New York Times Bestselling author.
So, I play for the cameras, give the people their wink and bite, keep the mystery alive. I do what I have to do.”
Soren’s gaze finally meets mine again, and my stomach sinks at the vulnerability I see tucked behind his eyes.
“The point is…I’m not always what you see.” A soft, sad smile touches his lips. “There’s more to me, despite what you think.”
That phrase cut right through me. What is wrong with me?
Soren’s not a character. He’s a person. A living, breathing human being with feelings and fatigue and walls I just helped reinforce.
One who’s been performing for so long, I’m not sure he even knows who he’d be if he stopped.
And I reminded him why he doesn’t. Shit, why did I say that to him?
Fingers tightening around the cup, my heart shifts a fraction. I don’t want to like him. But he’s making me want to see past the layers. Past the swagger and the smirk, down to the man who hides inside the spotlight. That’s risky.
“I need you to know.” Soren turns entirely toward me, his expression steady and unbearably sincere, “that during all of this…” His eyes roam over my face, trying to see the parts I’ve hidden behind my own brand of armor. “You don’t have to smile if it hurts. I’ll do it for you.”
The words slam into me with quiet precision, right into the softest part of me. Soren sees my mask for what it is. And he’s telling me that with him, I can take it off.