Chapter 15 #2
My chest tightens, a coil of confusion winding tighter with every word. He sounds so certain, and I don’t know what to do with it. Or with him. I don’t know if I should believe him or run away before I start to.
“You, Bells,” he says, softer now—dangerously so.
“You’re the one I want. And not just in my bed.
” Big hands grasp my waist. He leans down, his voice a whisper pressed between clenched teeth.
“So if you’re going to accuse me of something, make it something that actually reflects what I’ve shown you.
Not this bullshit version you’ve made up to protect yourself. ”
Soren releases me and steps away, breath ragged. I’m instantly confused as to why I want him to come back.
“And for the record? Wanting to fuck you and wanting you are not mutually exclusive.” He waits, watching me as though I’m the final page of a book he’s not ready to finish.
Then, that shadowed sadness reappears. This time, as his smile spreads across his handsome face.
“Maybe I’m not known as the long-haul type, but I don’t survive tarot readings, turkey hats, the whiplash you’re dishing out, and family for just anyone. ”
My heart is filling with emotions I’ve been pushing away since the very beginning. I don’t know how to trust them. Or him, for that matter.
Wrapping my arms around myself as if I can hold in the pain building behind my ribs, I keep my attention set on the floor. I cannot look at him. “You don’t get it.”
“I do get it.’ Soren approaches again. The heat of him immediately seeps into me. This man is impossible to escape.
“Those fireworks you mentioned. I want them with you. And I’m not going anywhere until you believe it. I’ll show you that this,” he motions between us, “can be real.”
There’s no teasing in his tone. There’s not even a flirty smirk. Only steady eyes that are locked on mine and an expression so earnest it robs me of air.
This is where my defiance kicks in. And I almost laugh. Soren Whoren Pembry thinks he’s going to show me something real?
Please.
He licks his lips, tasting the promise—no, challenge–in the air. Strong, muscular arms box me in, one palm against the door behind me, the other brushing my waist. I don’t move. Can’t. Silver eyes dive into mine, lit with an intensely deep determination.
And then he says the line that could destroy a woman. Destroy me–
“Tell me to stop wanting you, Bells, and I swear I will. But mean it. Don’t stand there and lie to me. Or yourself. Because you see…your pulse is racing. And I can tell your heart wants to leap out of your chest and into my mine.”
My eyes narrow. Fuck this guy. He knows nothing about me.
“You say those same things to hundreds—maybe thousands—of women.” The dig rushes out as a sharp little rustle of defense. “You make it seem easy because it is. You’re practiced. Slick. Fake.”
Every word carves another piece out of him. His jaw ticks. He’s hurt. It makes sense. I slapped him with something more painful than the truth—my doubt.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mean it to be so harsh. I mean… I did, but not to that level. I wanted distance. I wanted armor. I didn’t expect him to actually bleed.
That line though? About my heart wanting to leap into his? That’s ridiculous. Over-the-top. Too much for most romance novels, including mine.
Yet it still made my lungs stop.
So, I stomped all over that line with spiked boots and sarcasm because I’m terrified of him.
And yes, the guilt tastes bitter in my mouth. Maybe I should’ve kissed him again. Or at the very least… not tried to burn down the one person who might finally understand me.
No. Don’t be another one of his conquests, Ava, I plead with myself. Don’t give in. Don’t yield. Don’t make this mistake…
Again.
There’s a long silence between us. Soren’s gaze never wavers. Neither does mine.
“Challenge accepted, Bells,” he says, almost to himself, but loud enough for my rattled heart to hear.
At breakfast, the sun is higher and the smell of bacon, coffee, and toasted bread has replaced the early hush. I sit stiffly at the breakfast table next to Soren, who’s maddeningly at ease.
Fisher is at the end of the table. Between bites of pancake, his eyes bounce between us as though he’s watching a tennis match no one else sees.
My dad focuses on his food with monk-level devotion, and my mother… oh, she’s in full Q&A mode.
“So in your book—Fields of Fire—what inspired that final scene in the rain?” she asks Soren, leaning in, treating him as her guest of honor on the Morning Mandy Talk Show.
Soren smiles, polite and impossibly charming. “Honestly? I always wanted to end a story with the rain doing the confessing when the characters couldn’t.”
“That’s so poetic. God, I love that. Ava never talks about your work—why don’t you talk about his books, sweetie? Then again, you didn’t mention your relationship either, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Sipping my orange juice, I try not to glare. “We’re not here to dissect my—” The word stalls in my mouth, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. “Boyfriend’s career, Mom.”
My gaze drifts to Soren. He’s mid-chew, and there’s the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The word surges through me—warm, electric. Dangerous.
I turn back to my mother. “I don’t talk about his books because I haven’t read them.”
She appears genuinely offended. “Why not? They’re literary masterpieces.”
Literary masterpieces? My mother is comparing Soren’s work to books like the Great Gatsby? Sure, if Gatsby railed Daisy in a cave and wore leather pants.
My head tilts. “What about mine?”
She waves a hand. “Oh, honey. Yours are cute. They’re like Hallmark with cussing...and fucking.”
I spit out my juice. Soren covers his mouth to hide his grin.
Oh, this is hilarious to him? Well, fuck him very much.
“It’s not fair,” my mother adds, “or good for relationships when one partner does stuff and the other doesn’t. You need to read at least one of his books.”
“He read mine to poke fun at it.”
Soren clears his throat. “Actually,” his voice is calm and certain, “I’ve read all your books.”
Everything screeches full stop. My fork hovers in midair. Even Fisher quits chewing.
My mom’s eyes widen. “You have?”
Soren nods, eyes on me. “Every single one.”
I’m stunned into silence. Everyone, including my man-of-few-words father, is swooning.
What the fuck?
I bolt up. “I need to... get something.” Grabbing my phone off the counter as an excuse, I rush up the stairs, cheeks burning so hot I’m surprised no one comments.
I don’t stop until I’m inside the bathroom, the door locked behind me. Only then do I let out a shaky breath, hands braced on the sink.
The silence in here lets the weight of what happened at the table settle in.
He read them all?
Every single one?
The man I’ve labeled as my fake boyfriend, my online nemesis, the one person I was so sure couldn’t possibly understand me—read every single one of my books.
That’s the most intimate thing anyone’s ever done for me. My heart attempts to melt inside my chest, but I quickly ice it back over.
Get a grip, Ava. He read them so he could roast me with detailed accuracy. No other reason other than that.
Soren definitely didn’t read them because he cares. Not because he might actually have feelings for me.
Maybe I’m not known as the long-haul type, but I don’t survive tarot readings, turkey hats, the whiplash you’re dishing out, and family for just anyone.
Guess we can add reading every single one of my books to that list.
Pulse pounding, throat tight, I stare at myself in the mirror. I need air. I need space. I need to not develop feelings for someone who’s nothing more than a stunt. And a fuckboy.
But all I feel is him. His voice in my ear. The weight of his gaze. How my stomach flips when he looks at me like I’m the story he’s been trying to write his whole damn life.
What the hell am I doing? I’ve locked myself in a bathroom, hiding like a teenager, because Soren Pembry turned around and shattered the line I drew between truth and fiction.
What do I do with that?
My reflection offers no answers. Only flushed cheeks, glossy eyes, and the faint outline of a girl on the edge of a cliff she swore she’d never approach.
I press a hand to my chest. Beneath my skin, my pulse races way too fast.
I can tell your heart wants to leap out of your chest and into my mine.
He can’t be real.
He’s not supposed to be.
He’s not.
But he is. Flesh and bone, heat and heartbeat, steady where I spiral.
It takes me a few more minutes to get my shit together, and when I finally do, I head back downstairs, cheeks still warm, pride dangling by a thread.
The second my foot hits the bottom step, Mom peers up from the table with way too much interest. “Tummy issues, sweetheart?”
The room goes silent.
“What?”
Lowering her voice, she attempts to be discreet, but fails epically. “You were up there a while. I thought maybe your digestive system was acting up? You’ve always been sensitive to high-fat foods. Did you flush twice?”
I want to crawl into the breakfast casserole and disappear.
From that point on, every question my mother asks is one she’s never asked me.
Not once. And even though she means well, even though Soren is fascinating and brilliant and charming—it still stings.
This charade continues for what feels like forever, even though it’s probably only been a few minutes.
This isn’t breakfast anymore. It’s turned into a damn stage play starring Soren Pembry and featuring me as some poorly lit supporting cast.
I stab my eggs. My thigh bounces under the table, and Soren’s hand captures it—either a comfort or a flirt, I can’t tell anymore. That bothers me.
I allow it for the sake of the show. No dramatic flinching this time. I don't want another wide-eyed retreat. I’ve done that twice now.
His hand shifts. Higher. Fingers tracing at the edge of too intimate, too aware, too much.
Startled, I nearly knock over my juice, and his.
Fisher’s eyes zero in on me. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I side-eye Soren, who’s wearing a cocky fucking smirk.
And God, he’s beautiful. It’s wrong to look that arrogant and that delicious before nine a.m.
My mom whispers to Fisher, “Remember that video where he said her protagonist gave him ‘the slow burn of his life.’ I nearly died.”
Fisher swallows a bite of bacon, coughs once.
“Mom, we can still hear you.”
She waves a hand, totally unbothered.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I silently pray for a sinkhole. Or divine intervention.
Then Mom’s spine goes ramrod straight, which is a sign that a really bad idea has sparked in her brain.
“Ava, why don’t you take Soren into town this afternoon?
Show him the shops, the waterfront, that little bookstore you love.
He’s flown all this way—he should see more than our dining room and your bedroom. ”
I drop my fork.
“I love that.” Soren beams.
This breakfast was never a meal. It was a setup.
“Great idea,” I say, voice sugary enough to rot teeth. “Fisher can come too.”
Soren raises a brow. Fisher freezes mid-bite. I flash a victorious smile.
Soren Pembry thought he was getting alone time with me today?
Yeah. No dice, buddy.