Chapter 21 #2
“Did I wander into a snow globe on acid?” In the living room, Soren has slowed to a stop.
His gaze sweeps over the twinkle lights strung along every surface, the five holiday-themed candles I typically burn simultaneously, and the cluster of nutcrackers on the bookshelf that look as though they’re plotting a violent undertaking until finally landing on the disco-ball reindeer above the fireplace.
Soren laughs and spins around slowly, taking it all in again. “This is… a lot of Christmas.”
“Don’t judge me. I’ve been avoiding deadlines and nesting like a feral raccoon with a Michaels gift card.” I fluff a throw blanket that says Sleigh All Day in an aggressive glitter font. “This is a totally normal level of holly jolly.”
“Remind me to bring sunglasses next time. It’s blinding in here.” His eyes narrow in on my couch and look at it like it’s the most confusing thing he’s ever seen. And then—oh God—he spots the throw pillows.
Those throw pillows.
Cartoon candy canes in, um… compromising positions. One is clearly being spanked. The other is tied up with tinsel. I’m not emotionally stable enough to unpack their origin–which I’m pretty certain happened the night I was two bottles deep in Cabernet–let alone their current placement on my couch.
Soren tilts his head, assessing.
“Yes, they’re doing what you think they’re doing.” Lunging across the room, I suddenly become a defensive lineman and snatch them both up. “You weren’t supposed to see those. Nobody visits me. They’re for fun.”
“Fun, huh? Looks more like a metaphor for how Ava Bell likes it—decorative on the outside, filthy on the inside.”
I toss one of the naughty pillows at him. He catches it, then I head into the kitchen to pop some popcorn.
While I’m milling about, Soren turns the pillow over like it holds ancient secrets, studying it thoroughly.
“‘Naughty but nice,’” he reads aloud, amused. “Is this a seasonal threat or a year-round lifestyle?”
“Depends on the wine,” I shoot back.
“Then go ahead and pour yourself a glass, Bells.”
The microwave beeps. I pour the popcorn into a ridiculously festive bowl covered in holiday cheer, because I’ve surrendered to the aesthetic.
When I turn around, he’s pointing at a bottle of red on the counter.
“This one okay?” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Does it do the trick?”
Biting my lower lip, I nod and hand him the corkscrew.
Soren uncorks it with surprising grace. Two generous pours. A man who knows exactly what kind of night he wants this to be. Except—what if I’m the only one wanting it to go that way?
We return to the couch. I sit while he sets the glasses onto the coffee table, then Soren drops next to me like a man who’s found salvation. He exhales, melting deeper into the plush.
“Okay, this couch is suspiciously comfortable.” His legs stretch out. “Is it enchanted? Do I live here now?”
I cue up the movie. “Only if you behave.”
“Then, I’m definitely getting evicted.”
Soren squints at the screen. “Is this Twilight?”
“Absolutely, and if we’re up to it, New Moon.”
“I—” He covers his mouth. He might be having a moment. “You chose this?”
“Oh, I did. And we’re doing commentary.”
His eyes are wide with pure, unfiltered delight. “I get to roast this with you?”
“Obviously. But only after proper reverence is shown for the riotous cinematic masterpiece that is Taylor Lautner’s wig progression.”
“Ava Bell, you’re a genius. You know, they filmed it near my stomping ground.”
I take a handful of popcorn. “I thought you lived in Seattle?”
A smirk pulls at his mouth, and it’s deeply attractive. “Doing research on me, Bells?”
“I’m thorough.”
Soren chuckles. “Every year, I rent a cabin close to the coast. Peaceful. Inspiring. Near some of my favorite bookstores.”
Opening a bag of Skittles, I try not to show how much that image undoes me.
A rented cabin on the coast. The salt-stung air, waves crashing against weathered rocks, a fireplace spitting sparks while the world outside falls away.
No panels, promos, or people pulling at the edges of me.
The thought fills me so completely it feels like it’s pressing my palm to something warm and endearing.
“I will never confirm nor deny that I’ve stayed in Bella’s House.”
My head snaps toward him. “Bella’s House? The one that’s booked through 2050?”
His voice drops, and it makes everything inside me go still. “Have you not figured me out by now? I don’t accept defeat. I can find my way around any obstacle.”
I know he’s not talking about vacation rentals, so I do the mature thing and whip a pillow at him.
Soren catches it with one hand. Effortless. Annoyingly smooth. He doesn’t throw it back. Instead, he sets it aside, then shifts closer on the couch.
Touch-close.
His body heat seeps into me. Cedar and the faintest trace of eucalyptus hovers in the air between us. His thigh brushes mine. The contact is barely there, but my whole body reacts to it.
We don’t speak, but the urge to touch him is loud. While he sits next to me, undemanding, not pressing—just there, I decide that in this quiet little pocket of borrowed time, to let it in, and let it stay.
Maybe it’s the firelight. Or the wine. Or perhaps it’s him. The man who doesn’t run. The one who listens.
Sitting back, I press play and breathe.
We watch. We laugh. I forgot how this could all end in heartbreak and hate. For now, it’s happening for one night.
Problem is, I’m already craving the next.
We’re twenty minutes into Twilight when it happens.
I don’t mean the sparkling or the light stalking or the confusing biology class stare-down.
No, I’m talking about the incident.
It begins innocently enough—me quietly judging Bella’s complete inability to operate a backpack, and Soren making some sarcastic comment about how Edward’s hair has more volume than the earth’s atmosphere.
I respond in the only reasonable way: by flinging a skittle that hits him square in the chest.
He gasps like I’ve wounded him. “You assaulted me with a candy pellet!”
“It was yellow. Calm down. No one likes the yellow ones.”
“You monster.” Soren clutches his chest dramatically. “Lemon is my weakness.”
“You’re thinking of vampires, Pembry.”
“Them too,” he replies, digging a hand into the popcorn bowl for retaliation.
Before I can duck, I’m pelted with several rapid-fire kernels. One bounces off my cheek. One disappears into the couch cushions. The third rolls down my shirt on a journey of self-discovery.
“Uncalled for,” I say, batting at my sweater.
“You fired the first shot.”
“That was flirtation. You escalated it.”
Cocky, and unrepentant, Soren grins. “Well, you should’ve known I’d retaliate. I’m the fantasy villain, remember?”
Reaching into the popcorn bowl, I grab a handful and rain them down over his head. Most fall into his lap, but one stays in his hair. We both burst into laughter.
After a minute or so in the trenches of our popcorn battle, we declare a truce and collapse back onto the couch, limbs slightly tangled, the space between us smaller now. Popcorn crunches beneath me, but I don’t care. It’s scotchguarded.
On screen, Edward is giving Bella a speech about monsterhood while brooding from a tree branch as a tragic gargoyle.
“You know…” I half-smile. “For all its cringiness, there’s something kind of sweet about Twilight.”
Soren raises an eyebrow. “Sweet? Please elaborate on what part of this paranormal stalking saga you find sweet.”
“Charlie.”
That gives him pause.
“He’s awkward and a little emotionally unavailable, but he shows up. Makes her dinner. Checks her truck, cares, without needing credit.”
Soren’s watching me now, the movie forgotten. “Sounds like someone else’s dad I know.”
I’m caught off guard by the tenderness in his voice. “Yeah. Mine’s like that. He doesn’t get the whole ShelfSpace thing, but he understands books. He prints out my covers and keeps them framed in his garage next to his tools.”
Soren smiles. “That’s so fucking cute.”
Pride tightens in my throat. “Growing up, he bought me a new book every birthday growing up. Still does. And every year, he writes a message on the inside cover like he’s my personal dedicator.”
“Dedicators are underrated,” Soren says quietly. “They’re the people who believe in you even before the acknowledgments.”
That stupid, fluttery ache in my chest kicks up again.
This man. This night. This slow burn unfurling.
“I’m going to need a restraining order against how sweet you’re being.”
“Nah,” he murmurs. “But if I go out, I’m going out with popcorn in my hair and my self-respect intact.”
“You had self-respect?”
“It was very brief. I lost it somewhere around the sparkle reveal.”
I laugh harder than I have in years. Soren laughs too—deep and rumbling—and then reaches over and tucks a piece of popcorn from behind my ear like he’s unveiling a magic trick.
My breath catches—mercifully, brilliantly—then, as the scene changes. Bella’s confronting Edward in the forest. He tells her to say it.
Soren leans in, whispers, “Vampire,” at the exact same time Bella does.
We both snort. The mood lifts again. The tension folds itself back into laughter and sugar and the mess of who we are tonight—two people flirting through their defenses, popcorn in their hair, movie glow on their skin.
I don’t know what will happen next. But for now, we press play.
And keep watching.