Chapter 11
Eleven
AVA
After the glitter-storm circus that was the Great Booksgiving, Renata and Camille whisked Soren and me away like romance novel fairy godmothers on a caffeine bender.
Apparently, “organic relationship building” is done through a carefully organized weekend getaway with the enemy.
Our destination? Washington, D.C.
Reason? Content.
Camille and Renata have decided that before the Feast & Fiction event next week in Boston, we must detour through the nation’s capital for what they dubbed “a picturesque lovers’ weekend.”
Their words, not mine.
The itinerary reads like a Buzzfeed listicle titled Top Ten Cliché Couple Dates You’ve Already Seen in Every Rom-Com Ever.
· A carriage ride. Nothing screams timeless love like horse manure on Constitution Avenue.
· Candlelit dinner cruise on the Potomac.
· Matching scarves for a Lincoln Memorial selfie. (Yes, they actually packed us scarves.)
· A bookstore stroll with only one copy of a hot new release, which we’re supposed to “playfully” fight over.
It’s all designed for ShelfSpace clips and stories—slow pans of the monuments, moody filters, close-ups of us gazing at each other like we’re the stars in a holiday rom-com movie.
Please note: I do not gaze.
At least not willingly.
Soren, to his credit—or maybe to his vexing charm—plays along better than I expected.
He’s not the insufferable Sword Daddy he is online.
Or how he was at the Genre Feud. He holds doors.
He tips generously. He even made a joke about winter scarves that made me snort red wine out my nose during our pre-fake-date cocktail hour.
Which is…unfortunate, because I do not want to find him tolerable.
The carriage pulls up—with actual white horses—and I’m one fake laugh away from bolting.
Soren leans in, so only I can hear, “Tell me you don’t feel like we’re in a low-budget Regency reboot.”
I bite back a smile. “Oh, we absolutely are. And you’re underpaid background talent.”
A grin flits across his face, and my chest does a stupid rolling cartwheel in response.
The horses clop forward, hooves striking sparks off the pavement, and the carriage rocks us into a rhythm that feels far too intimate. The velvet bench offers no mercy, forcing me tight against Soren, his thigh a steady press into mine every time the wheels find a crack.
When the carriage lurches hard, his arm shoots out across me—an automatic, protective Mom Arm. His hand hovers so close to brushing my breasts that my pulse kicks like I’ve been caught doing something illicit.
Soren jerks his arm back like the velvet burned him, but not before color floods his neck, crawling up his cheeks in a slow, betraying bloom, all the way to the tips of his ears.
And here’s the problem: the flush doesn’t make him look guilty.
It makes him look adorable. Soft in a way he shouldn’t be.
Cute, even. It’s infuriating because there’s nothing cute about the way my body wonders what it would feel like if he didn’t stop short.
Did he mean to? Did he want to? The thought lodges itself into my brain, needling at me. If he didn’t—why do I want him to?
I fold my hands in my lap, eyes fixed firmly on the lampposts skating by. “This is ridiculous.”
“Agreed,” he says easily, settling back. “If Camille and Renata wanted authenticity, they should’ve stuck us in a rideshare with a driver who plays the same EDM song on repeat.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “At least then I wouldn’t smell horse poop.”
“Correction—you’d smell Axe body spray and despair.”
That earns him a smirk I don’t mean to give.
Soren notices, and his grin deepens, wicked and sweet at the same time.
His stormy eyes are calmer tonight, like moonlight dancing on water, and he’s gazing at me as if he’s trying to chip away at my carefully constructed armor to see the fragile girl underneath.
It’s unnerving.
I hate it.
“Why do you look at me like that?” I shift my attention to the Washington Monument glowing in the distance.
“Like what?”
“Like you like what you see.”
Soren’s arm lifts, stretches across the back of the carriage behind me, casual in posture but not in intent. His heat is everywhere, surrounding me, closing in.
“I do like what I see.” His tone is certain, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “I’ve liked it all night.”
My pulse jackhammers against my ribs. I should laugh it off, toss back a witty remark, shove him teasingly. But my throat locks, because Soren isn’t smirking. He isn’t joking. He means it.
And that—more than his cocky grin or his ridiculous fans or his rumored flesh sword—terrifies me most of all.
Silence.
Soren removes his arm, clasps his hands between his legs, and chuckles. “You’re adorable when you’re suffering.”
“I hate you.”
“No, I don’t think you do, Bells.” The words thread under my skin like the chilled air curling through the open side window.
The carriage jolts again. I grab the edge of the seat. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans a little closer, his shoulder brushing mine deliberately.
“So,” I say quickly, desperate for distance. “Do you plan on any more impromptu kisses tonight? Or was that strictly a one-time-for-the-cameras thing?”
Soren’s head tilts, and those stormy grays hold the reflection of the passing lights. “Depends.”
“On what?” My voice comes out thinner than I’d like.
“On whether you’d hate me for it.”
For the briefest, most intense second, I’m not sure what my answer would be. His gaze stays on me, intent, until I have to look away, pretending to be fascinated by a group of teenagers snapping selfies.
Fake, I remind myself. This is supposed to be fake. Just content. Survival until Feast and Fiction.
My mind wanders back to what he said:
“The thing about fire, Bells. 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.”
Heat lashes down my spine at the memory of that statement, and it makes me wonder, What would it feel like to step straight into that fire? Just once. To surrender to it? Would it burn me clean, forge me into something stronger, or leave me as nothing but ash?
Soren’s too much. Bold words. Shameless questions. The same confidence that makes the entire internet swoon. But beneath it, in these private moments with him, he’s a different man—one that doesn’t fit the Sword Daddy persona he’s perfected for the world.
That’s a problem, though. I don’t want to see it. Don’t want to like it. Don’t want to wonder who Soren Pembry is when the cameras aren’t rolling, and the banter isn’t staged.
But here I am, doing exactly that.
The carriage slows, wheels crunching against the curb as the driver calls out something about the “romantic dismount.” Kill me.
Soren swings out of the carriage first, shoes hitting pavement with unfair grace. He turns, arm extended, palm open, like this is an episode of Bridgerton instead of a rom-com death trap with horses.
I hesitate, but eventually slide my hand into his. The second I start down the teensy, metal ladder, my heel snags on the step, my ankle twists, my balance falters, and the world tilts.
Soren’s grip tightens, his other hand latches onto my waist, and he pulls me against him before I can eat asphalt in front of a row of gawking tourists.
My body slams into his broad, solid chest, smelling faintly of magical pine trees and him.
“You okay?” he asks, his tone worried, and laced with an emotion that doesn’t feel fake at all.
I make the mistake of looking up. His gaze crashes into mine. Suddenly, there’s no Capitol dome, no clopping horses, no cameras waiting to catch a candid. Just his hands on me, my pulse sprinting, and a silence that feels like it’s keeping a secret we haven’t confessed yet.
Soren’s mouth curves into a sexy half-smile. “Should I start the ten-second countdown?”
The weight of his hands, the heat in his eyes, the memory of that first kiss—all of it makes the air knot in my throat.
I manage a slight shake of my head. “No.”
Soren lets me go, slowly, as though reluctant to hand me back to gravity, then tips the driver and gestures for me to start walking.
Next up on the evening ticket—the dinner cruise, which is precisely what you’d expect: white tablecloths, violinists playing a slightly off-key version of All of Me, and a photographer, who Renata definitely hired, is pretending to be a “staff member” for better shots.
I sit across from Soren at a table that’s a little too small, with a view of the Potomac gliding by in moody darkness. Candlelight reflects off the window, turning this whole setup into the opening credits of a CW drama.
He lifts his wine glass. “Cheers, Bells. To our love story.”
“Fake love story,” I correct.
“Right.” His brows knit, then he sets his glass down without taking a sip from it.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass against his anyway. “May our story die a noble death in the new year.”
A hand covers his heart. “You wound me. At least pretend all this sweeps you away.” His words are meant to be playful, but his eyes hold a hint of hurt behind them. Why though?
“Oh, I’m swept.” I tear a piece of bread off the loaf. “Mostly toward the lifeboats.”
Soren chuckles genuinely, and the sound burrows into my heart in a way I don’t appreciate. It’s nothing like the overproduced laugh he uses for fans during livestreams. This one he keeps hidden away from the general pubic. But not from me.
Again, why?
Our entrées arrive—expensive salmon, capers, and a vibrant garnish that looks like a small weed plucked from a sidewalk crack. I spear it with my fork. “I bet Camille Googled ‘romantic meals that photograph well’ before picking this.”
“She totally did,” Soren agrees, cutting into his salmon with infuriating calm. “We’re one rose petal away from a Nicholas Sparks novel.”
I snort laugh. “More like the parody version.”