Chapter 29 #2
“There was a bookish art exhibit. Possibly a bookstore challenge that might’ve maxed out his credit card. And a picnic. He brought fancy little finger foods. And one of those cozy blankets that somehow smelled like cedar and plot development.”
Fisher’s mouth falls open. “You slept with him after that?! Love, never sleep with anyone after an emotionally well-paced outing.”
I glare.
“Did he feed you himself? Read you a poem? Quote Austen with a smirk and devastating eye contact?”
“There was… dancing…in the snow.”
He chokes on air. “In the snow? Ava Bell, you’re already married in seven states.”
I press my lips together, trying not to smile.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, hand to his chest as if I told him I eloped. “He Nicholas-Sparksed you.”
Shaking my head, I laugh. “Yeah, I guess he did.”
“And after that?”
My smile spreads. “We binged the Twilight saga.”
Fisher goes completely still. “You what?”
I shrug, sheepish. “Started with Twilight, then New Moon, and… may have made it halfway through Eclipse before—well, things took a turn.”
He throws both hands in the air. “Oh my God, you’re in love. That man sat through Bella Swan’s entire decision tree and still wanted to sleep with you? That’s a soulmate, Ava. Oh my God, you’ve imprinted.”
“Stop romanticizing it!”
“Too late. I’m already planning your engagement photo aesthetic.”
Groaning, I cover my face with both hands. “We agreed it wasn’t going to be a thing. Then it became a thing. We spent an entire weekend snowed in. And now…I’m scared, but happy. And also scared.”
Fisher reaches across the table, resting his perfectly manicured hand over mine. “Here’s the deal. You’re scared because this isn’t about numbers or PR or bestselling lists anymore. This is about him. And you. And how he makes you feel like you matter, even when you’re clearly spiraling.”
My throat threatens to close up.
He squeezes my hand. “So yeah. I joke. But I see it. You trust him. And the way he looks at you? That man would buy every one of your books from every store in America if you asked him to. He probably already has.”
I’m laughing, shoulders shaking, when a shadow falls across our table.
“Wow,” a syrupy voice says. “So it is true.”
Our attention shifts.
Tall. Blonde. A Bond girl type in kitten heels and head-to-toe monochrome beige. She’s holding a latte and haughtiness in equal measure.
“Sorry—do I know you?” I ask her.
“Oh, no, you don’t me,” she says, fake-laughing that’s too high-pitched for this early hour. “But your so-called boyfriend, Soren, does.”
The sound of his name on her collagen-injected lips snaps my anxiety up to a roaring level.
She presses a manicured hand to her chest. “It’s so funny. Right before the Great Booksgiving kickoff party, Soren was waking me up with his tongue in my—well. You get it.”
My stomach squeezes around the knife she just inserted.
And twists.
Because I do get it. Vividly. Horribly.
I get it so well that my brain helpfully fills in the blanks with flashes I never saw—but now can’t unsee.
But worse than the visual, is the math.
The timeline.
Booksgiving.
Her.
Us.
The cabin.
I hear his voice in my head, clear as that first snowfall: “It’s been over a year since I’ve had a partner.”
My chest goes tight. My breath comes shallow.
If what this woman is saying is true, then he lied. And not just a little white lie—an emotional landmine.
And just like that, my demons—so carefully silenced, so neatly tucked away—come drifting back in.
You’re so naive.
Nothing but a conquest.
A joke.
Men say what they need to say to get what they want.
You gave it up so freely.
This was never real.
I’m trying not to crumble while this woman beams like she just won something.
And maybe… she did.
She tilts her head, “bitch” dripping from her tone as she continues twisting that knife, “And then—what? Twenty-four hours later, he’s dating you? I mean… My God, he moves fast.”
I don’t give her the satisfaction of a visible reaction.
I can’t.
Technically—technically—I have no right to one. The Great Booksgiving happened over a month ago. That’s when the contract was born, long before anything real started with Soren. We weren’t together together then. And I can’t hold his past against him like I own it.
What I can do is be pissed that he lied. Really pissed.
Fisher’s foot nudges mine under the table, trying to remind me that we’re in public and I shouldn’t stab her with my mimosa straw. He should take his own advice because he’s holding in a breath like he’s about to commit a felony with that butter knife in his hand.
I steady my voice. “So sorry you mistook your hookup for a personality.”
Fisher coughs to cover his laugh.
Clearly not used to pushback, she blinks.
“Something in your eye?” I ask.
“Enjoy it while it lasts. I’m sure he’ll get bored soon enough. He always does. Ask his contact list.”
Soren appears behind her, hands tucked casually in his pockets, wearing an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s pretending not to notice the tension, like he hasn’t just stepped straight into a flaming emotional dumpster. But I see the slight feather in his jaw.
He’s trying to play it cool.
He’s not fooling me.
Soren moves around her, leans down, and kisses me on the lips, soft and quick. “I missed you. You were gone when I woke up.”
I don’t kiss him back. My whole body has gone stiff under the weight of this woman’s pretentious grin and the echo of her words still buzzing in my ears.
And now… the images start.
Uninvited. Unrelenting.
I don’t want them, didn’t ask for them, but they’re here anyway—crashing through my mind like a montage I never wanted.
Soren pushing her up against a wall.
Her head thrown back, screaming his name like it belongs to her.
Her nails digging into his shoulders.
The cocky smirk he gives me—aimed at her.
Breathe through it, Ava. Try to focus on now—on us.
But her laugh lingers in the air like cheap perfume. And I hate how much it’s messing with my head.
I blink hard, willing it all away, but the sting behind my eyes is real.
Soren straightens. His gaze cuts from me… to her. “Lena,” he says, coolly, like her name tastes wrong in his mouth, even if it once didn’t.