Chapter 11 #2
He smiles at that, then wipes his mouth with his napkin. “So, are you planning to push me overboard before dessert?”
“I considered it. But you probably float. Too much hot air.”
Soren laughs, and that treacherous little flip my chest did earlier has traveled to my stomach. Not fair. Definitely not okay.
As the dinner wears on, the boat glides past the Lincoln Memorial, glowing in the night. Our reflection is in the glass, but it dissolves once the photographer’s camera snaps like a vulture in the distance.
I plaster on the fakest grin I can muster. Soren does the same. Our eyes meet, and for one split second, my smile isn’t fake at all.
Quickly looking away, I stab another piece of salmon. Fake. This is fake. He’s fake. I’m fake. We’re fake. Everything is fake.
Except my pulse doesn’t seem to believe any of that.
We finish dinner, drink the rest of our wine, and decide to head out onto the deck. The air is cold and biting when we step onto it, our breath fogging in little puffs that drift off over the black water.
Renata and Camille are nowhere in sight—probably inside strategizing how to caption our next “candid.” In the meantime, it’s just the two of us, leaning against the railing, the city sparkling in the distance.
“Romantic enough for you?” Soren asks, tugging his coat tighter around him. His grin is a little crooked and a whole lot boyish. “All we’re missing is a boombox and John Cusack.”
I chuckle, hugging my own coat closer. “You’d probably pick the wrong song.”
“Not a chance. I have impeccable taste.”
“Please. You’d go full drama—Highway to Hell or something equally ridiculous.”
“Wrong. Careless Whisper. Every time.” He hums the tune until I roll my eyes.
Banter fills the space between us for a few minutes. We keep things safe and light. I ignore the wind as it catches strands of my hair, as well as how Soren subtly steps closer to block it. He’s being a gentleman, and that’s messing with me. Everything about him is.
I grip the railing tighter and decide to be bold with my own questions, like he is. “So, there’s still one thing about all this I don’t get.”
“What’s that?”
“The day we signed the contract, you said you were doing this for entertainment value. But you’ve got the whole internet drooling over you.
You could fake date anyone. Or…real date them.
You can get your kicks with anyone you want.
Why me? I live a stale existence. And our ideas of fun are painfully different. ”
His eyes lock on mine, unflinching. “That’s exactly why you’re perfect for me.”
My response is a short, disbelieving laugh. “Perfect?”
“Yes.” His voice sounds calm, but with a slightly rough edge.
“My life stopped being mine the second one of my books hit big. Crowds, panels, livestreams. People don’t want me, they want the Dagger Daddy.
The Blade. The walking thirst trap that banters through everything.
” He shakes his head once, presses his lips together.
“But you? You don’t buy the act. You bulldoze right through it.
You call me on my bullshit and don’t care if it makes me uncomfortable.
You remind me I’m still a man, not just a persona.
That’s not stale, Bells. That’s the only thing that feels real to me. ”
Soren’s words settle in places I don’t want them to.
And in this one fragile, terrifying second, I believe him.
I think maybe he understands me, beyond our internet feud and our curated captions.
He sees past the girl who’s been stumbling through bad reviews and worse memories, and is looking at me, Ava Bell.
The broken and fragile. The steadfast and strong.
That scares the fucking hell out of me.
I can’t let myself buy into that notion, not even for a moment. If I do, then this stops being harmless make-believe. It sprouts claws. It becomes a weapon that could slice me clean open.
I wet my lips, level my voice. “But it isn’t real. It’s fake.”
Soren’s smile fades, twisting into one I haven’t yet seen from him.
He shakes his head, gaze fixed on the rippling dark water.
“Everything in my life is noise. Fun, sure. Addictive, sometimes. But it’s not—” He pauses, mouth pressing shut, as if the words he was about to say were too heavy to.
“You see,” he starts again, pauses. “You don’t want anything from me.
Personally, that is. I find that…refreshing.
And you intrigue me, if I’m being honest.”
I look at him, and the cocky Dagger Daddy from ShelfSpace isn’t standing here next to me. This Soren is gentler, fervent, and—for reasons I refuse to admit to—he makes my heart beat extremely fast.
So I do what I do best. I deflect. “Deep thoughts for a dinner cruise.”
His lips twitch. “What can I say? The water makes me poetic.”
“Dangerous combination.” I turn back toward the glow of the Lincoln Memorial, my pulse still drumming, traitorous and loud.
The lit monument spills over the water, fractured light shimmering between us. I swipe a stray strand of hair from my face, pretending it’s the wind that makes me shiver.
Behind me, I hear the rustle of fabric. Then a scarf, smelling faintly of pine and sexy Viking warrior, slides around my neck. Soren tugs the ends together gently, doubling me up in it. His fingers brush my collarbone before retreating.
I freeze, because this is not in the itinerary.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Soren says, voice stout like it’s been waiting to be spoken. “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t fake date anyone else. Or re—” His words cut off. It’s becoming a pattern with him. One I don’t understand. He finishes with, “You’re fun to rile up.”
I should cut down these warm emotions taking root inside me before they overtake me.
But then Soren adds, “And for some reason, I want to help my enemy succeed. I told you, Bells—I’m more than what you see online. Maybe one day, you’ll believe that.”
I stare straight ahead. Looking at him right now would be a mistake. A fatal one. My pulse hammers against the scarf he just tied around me, as if it knows whose hands were there seconds ago.
Fake. This is fake, Ava.
What if it could be real?
No. Fuck no. I crush that little whisper in my brain before it grows teeth and turns into a beast I can’t cage. That’s not the deal. Definitely not the plan. And if I let myself believe otherwise, it won’t be Soren Pembry who breaks me. It’ll be me, all over again.