Chapter 10
Ten
SOREN
It’s not the first time I’ve shared a suite with a woman. But it’s the first time the woman is Ava Bell—romance’s golden girl, my fake girlfriend, and the human embodiment of a soft sweater hiding a stick of dynamite.
The moment we step inside, she wants out, acting like we’ve just entered a cage, with her eyes darting to the corners, calculating exits, arms tucked tight across her chest as if they might physically hold her together.
The space isn’t small. It’s one of those obnoxiously nice penthouse-style setups with a gas fireplace, modern edges, muted gold accents, and two bedrooms connected by a shared living space.
Her suitcase sits next to the leather bench by the door, a scarf draped over the side—one of those thick, romantic ones she wears on book promos.
I nod toward the bag. “Fisher?”
“Renata thought it’d be more seamless if my stuff were already here.”
Ava’s eyes continue surveying the area as she heads straight to the left bedroom. “I’m gonna rest,” she says without looking back.
“No problem,” I reply gently. “Need anything?”
Shaking her head, quick and quiet, she keeps moving toward the bedroom without another word, then disappears inside. The door clicks shut.
Good talk.
With an exhale, I let go of everything this day threw at us, and the air finally stops vibrating with tension. I set my phone on the bar counter, peel off my jacket, and make a beeline for the liquor tray.
Vodka. Tonic. Ice. Lime. Mechanical muscle memory.
The air outside on the balcony bites with a fall wind that threads through your clothes and hooks its claws in your chest.
In the distance, our little pumpkin patch glows inside the hotel courtyard with strings of lights blinking like sleepy stars. Voices drift from below, laughter caught in the edges of conversation. It’s all so alive. But up here, it’s as though I’m watching a party through glass.
I take a slow sip. Bitterness blooms first, cold like frost edging a windowpane. Then the lime drifts in, bright but fleeting, a dash of sweetness gone too soon. It settles in my chest, the taste numbing, reminding me that the woman of my dreams is less than a hundred feet away. And she’s nervous.
Ava’s not wrong for being so. I don’t come with the cleanest of reputations, and I’ve been putting on a show for so long that I forget what it’s like to be in it.
And now, the line between performance and reality blurred so fast for me, I can’t pinpoint the moment it disappeared—only that I wasn’t fully prepared when it did.
Unselfishly, I meant for the kiss to be marketing gold.
Selfishly, it was everything I’ve been craving for over a year.
All I felt was her.
All I tasted was her.
It wasn’t a kiss. More like an undoing. Of her.
Of me. Of everything I thought I could control.
It was the best damn thing I’ve ever felt.
And the second her mouth met mine, she showed her hand.
It was a risk that could’ve ended with a slap across my face or a knee to the balls.
But Ava Bell kissed me back. Fingers threaded in my hair, her palm gripping my cheek, staking a claim.
When I stumbled upon her in that locker room—her voice breaking on my name, her body shattering under her own touch—I knew this wasn’t smoke and mirrors. This is fire. And it’s ours.
I’ll be damned if I let fear or reputation snuff it out. Come hell, high water, or every headline in the book world stacked against us—I’m not letting her go. Not now. Not ever.
The only problem is, she doesn’t like me. Not how I want her to. Which makes this whole fake dating, make-believe closeness thing, so damn frustrating.
I drain half my glass in one swallow. The burn is a welcome distraction. I should’ve apologized earlier when she told me she was mad. But like I told her, sorry, not sorry.
What started as a small crush for me—stubborn, and maddening—has only deepened over time. I fed it with banter, long-distance sparring, obsessively watching her videos, and categorizing her expressions.
The moment our eyes met for the first time in person, I knew…this isn’t a crush.
It’s destiny.
It’s inevitable.
It’s her.
Tonight, in that pumpkin patch, the air turned silent, and the world slowed down.
She almost let me in. There was a spark of vulnerability.
She nearly accepted my offer, let herself believe I could be a safe space for her.
Then she slammed the door to her emotions shut before I could wedge my foot in.
Ava Bell is a woman who’ll fight herself harder than she’ll ever fight me.
She’ll armor up with sarcasm and call it healing.
I’ve already waited a year. Watching from afar and wanting her in silence.
What’s a little longer? She’ll come around.
I have to keep showing up until she realizes I’m not the enemy.
I’m the ending she didn’t see coming.
I stand out on the balcony a minute longer, letting the cool air sting my cheeks, then head back inside, leaving the glass on the patio table. The warmth of the suite hits immediately. Soft lighting and stillness make the whole place appear as though it’s holding its breath.
I stand in front of Ava’s door, press my ear to the cold surface. Everything is still inside her room. No music, no TV, no sound of water running. Just quiet. I don’t knock on her door. I leave her be and retreat to my own.
Inside, I open my bag, pull out the portfolio holding Ava’s letters. My fingers grip the pen for a second before I start writing.
Bells,
I told you tonight that you don’t have to smile if it hurts.
I meant that.
You don’t owe anyone your composure. Not to the cameras. Definitely not to the crowd. And certainly not to me.
I saw your hands shaking when you picked up the cider. I saw you twist your scarf as if it were the only thing keeping you strapped to this earth. And when someone said we looked good together, I saw you look away.
We did look good, by the way. You were autumn sunlight caught in motion. Someone I shouldn’t want this badly, but do anyway.
I wish I could make this simple.
I kissed you and I meant it. And you felt it—the undeniable magnetic pull between us.
The fear in your eyes confirmed that. But there’s no denying you kissed me back.
I understand your trepidation with this whole thing. Fake dating. Public charades. All of it.
I’ve messed with your quiet life, but I will not be careless with it. I know how hard you’ve worked to protect it.
So here’s what I can offer:
The bigger bedroom’s yours, nonnegotiable.
Vodka in the freezer, comfort on standby.
If you want silence, I’ll shut up.
If you want noise, I’ll make it.
If you need space, I’ll give it.
But if you ever decide to let me get close, even an inch, I’ll be there.
I won’t take that lightly.
Love,
S
It’s barely past midnight when I wander into the kitchenette, shirtless, feet bare, hair mussed. I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut off, and my stomach’s grumbling.
After filling a glass with water, I grab a handful of trail mix from the bowl Camille stocked and lean against the counter, chewing and staring blankly toward the balcony.
Soft footsteps sound behind me. I crane my neck to see over my shoulder. Ava’s shuffling toward me, wearing an oversized hoodie that I wish were mine, and fuzzy socks that barely make a sound on the tile.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She shakes her head. “You?”
“Not a chance.”
Ava hovers a second, then crosses to the island stool. “I feel antsy.”
“Yeah.” I slide the trail mix bowl toward her, followed by a bottle of water. “Being fake-coupled-up is shockingly stressful. Who knew?”
She cracks a smile. A small one, but it still lights me up inside.
After a beat of awkward silence, she randomly asks, “How’d you get into writing?”
I shrug, sipping from my glass. “Grew up reading fantasy, old school stuff, Narnia, Earthsea. Got obsessed with mythology. Needed a way to channel it. Also, I was an odd kid with insomnia and too many notebooks.”
Ava hums. “I was the girl in the back of the class writing breakup scenes during math. My teachers thought I was depressed.”
“Were you?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Maybe a little. I never felt accepted by the other kids in school. Writing gave it shape.”
A moment passes. I lean on the counter, facing her. “So, why romance?”
She taps her nails on the counter once, twice. “I love the guarantee of a happily ever after and that they’re going to choose each other. Even if it’s complicated at first, and messy along the way.”
“And the spice?” I tease gently.
She glares at me over the length of her water bottle. “It’s called realism. Most adults have sex. Some even enjoy it.”
“Do you?” I ask, shamelessly.
She chokes on the sip she just took. “Kind of personal, isn’t it?”
“You opened the door with all the ‘realism’ talk. This is me, trying to run through it.”
She sets the bottle down with a little too much force. “Well, realism also includes boundaries. Maybe try knocking first.”
“So that’s a yes, then? You enjoy it.” I prop my fist under my chin. “Man, Bells, you do not want me thinking about you enjoying sex.”
We stare at each other for a long beat.
Tilting her head like she’s assessing a wild animal that sat down and asked politely for tea, she asks, “Is this flirting or some sort of elaborate literary chicken game?”
I grin. “Why not both?”
Bemused, Ava shakes her head and lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “If you try to turn this into some tortured enemies-to-lovers subplot—”
“Too late. I already outlined it while you were finishing that sentence.”
She groans dramatically and snatches her water. “I need a stronger drink.”
“So that’s a yes?” I ask again. “You enjoy sex?”
Still no answer.
“Who inspires those scenes?” I press.
“Excuse you and your prying questions.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just…the way you write—you’ve either got a lot of experience or one hell of a vivid imagination.”
Her lips purse. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would actually. It’s fascinating.”
Ava scoffs. “You wouldn’t last two minutes inside my imagination. It’s broken glass and plot deadlines in there.”
“I’m not afraid of a little structure that might bite in the process.”
“Okay,” she shifts on the barstool, “to answer one of your intrusive questions, maybe a few people inspired them.”
Jealousy flares in my chest. I try to conceal it, but don’t do a very good job. “Lucky few.”
“To be completely honest,” she continues. “I watch a lot of porn and Passionflix to help me write those scenes.”
My cock stirs instantly, hit with a bolt of heat straight to my core. I attempt to ground myself by gripping the edge of the counter with one hand, but it does nothing to stop a mental narrative from crashing in.
I’m picturing us curled up on the couch, Ava tucked into my side, watching porn with that wicked gleam in her eye, tossing out dry commentary as though it’s another Thursday—
Until it’s not.
Until the scene on screen shifts, and she goes quiet.
Until her breathing changes.
Until she squirms.
Until my lips brush the shell of her ear and I ask: Want to try it?
Then her hand slides over my stomach, lazy at first, turning purposeful, diving into the waistband of my pants to find my hard cock, leaking, and ready.
Dipping my own hand into her leggings, palm between her legs, I circle her clit with coaxing strokes as her grip on my cock tightens. And those sounds—filthy, high-pitched moans I’ve only ever heard through a screen, now coming from her. Louder. Needier. My name is rooted in the middle of it.
Jesus.
Subtly, I adjust myself behind the counter, praying she doesn’t notice. This girl has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does. Either way, if I don’t walk away soon, this conversation is going to take a very, very hard turn. Pun intended.
“Yeah?” I manage, voice lower than before. “That explains the accuracy.”
“What about you?” she asks. “You write spice in your stories, don’t you?”
I pick up a walnut and roll it between my fingers, much like I would her clit if I ever had the pleasure of meeting it.
“I do when the story calls for it. Most of mine have been fade-to-black—until recently. Only because my publisher wants more.” My eyes meet hers.
“It’s been an adjustment. I’ve always been better at doing it in real life than describing it in prose. ”
Ava’s glare intensifies.
“Want me to show you?”
Her eyes go wide.
I waggle my brows.
“You’re the worst.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you absolutely are.”
Rounding the island, my hand drags lightly along the counter. “You’re stalling.”
“How so?” She’s not looking at me as she says it. So much defiance in this one.
“First, you dodge my question. Then you try to swap the spotlight. Why are you so uncomfortable?”
Still not looking at me. “I’m not.”
My expression becomes more arrogant before I ask, “Do I make you nervous, Bells?”
Ava’s throat works around a swallow, and when she finally answers, her voice is lighter than she means it to be.
“Nervous? Please. I’m not nervous. I know better than to play with fire when it’s standing six feet tall and grinning at me.
” Her gaze finds mine, quick and betraying, before darting back to her glass.
My grin deepens. “So you admit I’m fire.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” She takes another sip of water, but her hand trembles just slightly.
“Too late. Definitely flattered.”
Ava sets the glass down with a bit of clink and lifts her chin.
I move another inch. “I’ll ask again—do you enjoy it?”
Her lips part slightly. “Sex?”
“No,” I reply. “Christmas tree assembly.”
A flush rises in her cheeks.
“Yes, sex.”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Which tells me everything.” I’m so close to her now. One more inch and I could touch her. “Guess I hit a nerve.”
Ava’s body stiffens. Even her breath locks up. Her gaze can’t help but roll down my naked chest before she catches herself, and those pretty autumn eyes snap back up. I can tell she’s mad at herself for looking. Love that.
“Good night, Soren.” Ava moves to stand. I block her. She peers up at me, a little angry, a little confused, but a whole lot breathless.
“The thing about fire, Bells.” I lean down, so my voice sweeps over her skin. “You can run from it, hide from it, try to smother it, but once it’s in you? You don’t get a choice. You burn.”
Ava angles away, fists balled up at her sides. It’s not anger. It’s need, shuddering through her muscles, aching in the spaces between us. If she lets go, she’ll touch me. And if she touches me, we’ll both ignite.
And then—
Fire.
Burn.
“Please move.” Her hand drifts toward her throat, like she could hide the furious pulse hammering there.
Turning slightly to let her pass, she quickly disappears down the hall, into her room, and locks herself inside.
I pop the walnut in my mouth and smile.