Chapter 6
NATALIE
W e had walked into a Christmas explosion.
Twinkle lights wrapped around every railing, staircase, and potted plant. Garlands were laced with velvet bows. A literal twelve-foot Christmas tree stood in the center of the lobby, decked out in what had to be a thousand ornaments.
The smell of cinnamon, pine, and cookies assaulted me like some festive drug, and the fireplace—because, of course, there was a fireplace—was crackling like it was auditioning for a fireplace commercial.
“Wow,” I whispered.
Next to me, Easton leaned in with a cocky grin. “Bet you a gingerbread man, there’s mistletoe somewhere in here.”
The insinuation in his voice was heavy, and I gave him another glare.
“If I see mistletoe, I will light it on fire, Easton Maddox.”
“’Tis the season,” he said, all smug and amused like my barely-contained breakdown was his favorite show on Netflix.
Yanking my arm from Easton’s grip, I hustled over to reception, where a woman in her sixties stood behind the polished mahogany check-in desk decorated with a glimmering garland, her round glasses perched on the tip of her nose as she peered over the lenses at me with an aggressively cheerful smile.
A red-and-green plaid scarf was wrapped around her neck, and a festive pin in the shape of a tiny Christmas wreath was fastened to her cream-colored cardigan.
Everything about her screamed “holiday spirit.”
“Welcome to the Pinewood Bed-and-Breakfast!” she chirped. “Where the beds are cozy, the cocoa is bottomless, and the Christmas magic never runs out!”
I blinked at her. That was…a lot.
The woman beamed, clearly expecting some kind of enthusiastic response, so I forced a smile. “Sounds…great.”
Easton, of course, was beside me now, oozing charm like a freaking peppermint mocha with legs.
I leaned over the counter. “Natalie Bennett,” I said, trying not to sound as crazed as I felt at the moment. “It should be under the wedding block.”
The woman—Margaret, according to her name tag—typed away with festive purpose. I blinked at the fact that her keyboard was red with little green LED lights. That was what you called going all in.
“Hmm…” she said, her smile dimming. “That’s strange, dear.”
I knew that tone. Fuck. That was the “there’s been a horrible mistake, but I’m going to deliver the news like a Christmas angel” tone.
“What’s strange?” I asked in a tight voice.
“It seems there might have been a glitch in the system. I don’t have a room under your name.”
I blinked, leaning over the counter to look at the screen, too, as if that would somehow conjure up my name. “That can’t be right. Maybe my sister put it under her name when she reserved it. She’s the bride, Paige Bennett,” I said quickly.
Next to me, Easton was checking in with a man who was the closest thing to a living, breathing Santa Claus that I’d ever seen.
Margaret’s husband—at least, I assumed that’s who he was—was straight out of a Christmas card.
He had a full, snow-white beard that spilled down his chest in a soft, cloudlike mess, rosy cheeks that looked like they’d been pinched by angels, and a round belly that stretched the buttons of his red-and-black flannel shirt like it had hosted one too many gingerbread cookies.
If the man let out a ho, ho, ho , I was going to drop everything and become a true believer.
“Donald Humphries,” Easton drawled, flashing Santa his most devastating smile as he slid a sleek black wallet out of his coat.
I blinked.
That was the name of our old high school football coach.
The same Donald Humphries who had smelled like mothballs and wore athletic shorts pulled so high he could’ve smuggled his lunch in the waistband, paired with a whistle he never stopped blowing, and a visor that seemed permanently glued to his forehead.
Not exactly the suave alias I would’ve gone with.
I steadfastly ignored how much I loved the sound of Easton’s voice. It was too bad I couldn’t have enjoyed it more on the drive here, but obviously that hadn’t been possible.
Santa’s eyebrows raised, and then he nodded as Easton handed him an ID that clearly wouldn’t have that name. Obviously, this had been arranged beforehand.
He was smirking at me, of course. Probably because I was staring like I’d forgotten how eyes worked.
I forced myself to look away and pretend to be normal.
The effort was herculean. I focused on the Christmas tree.
The garland. The twinkle lights. Anything but the fact that Easton was giving a fake name.
Because that’s what celebrities did, right?
They used fake names. I’d seen that in gossip columns.
You know, the ones I definitely didn’t read late at night in bed while pretending I was so over him.
Gird your loins , Natalie .
This was why I’d left. This. Exactly this. His life was fake names and assistants and glossy premiere photos. And mine was…Nerds Gummies and a beat-up car named Old Bessie.
Easton’s frown deepened slightly as he glanced over at me; he could always read my moods like a flipping road map, and for one traitorous second, I thought he looked…sad. But then Santa let out a hearty chuckle.
“Ah, yes! One of the groomsmen, I assume? We’ve got you in the Evergreen Suite—top floor, best view of the mountains. A fan of Christmas, are ya?”
“Something like that,” Easton said with a chuckle, his eyes still on me.
“I’m so sorry, darlin’,” Margaret said, breaking Easton’s and my much too heavy eye contact. “But there’s only one room coming up under your sister’s name.”
“Do you have your reservation number?” Easton asked oh so helpfully as he leaned one elbow on the counter.
I turned and glared at him like I might bite him.
“Well…no. I thought Paige and Levi were taking care of all of that,” I said slowly.
Easton tilted his head, looking positively entertained. “It was in the email. There was a link to book the rooms. My assistant did it that day.”
Now I was panicking. I vaguely remembered some kind of email, but I’d been finishing up finals and existing on caffeine, stress, and an unreasonable amount of Nutella, and everything was so last minute and…
Fuck. I definitely hadn’t read that email.
“We were responsible for booking our own rooms?” I said, that weird squeak back in my voice.
Margaret winced. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But we’re at full capacity right now. We don’t have any other rooms available.”
I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “Okay, you have double occupancy, right? My grandmother is staying here. I’ll see if I can room with her. ”
Before Margaret could answer, a familiar voice piped up from behind me. “Oh, honey, I’d love to help, but I can’t.”
I turned to see MeMaw standing in the middle of the room, wearing a sweater so aggressive it could have blinded me.
It had a massive blinking Rudolph nose smack in the middle, and her bedazzled red glasses made her look like a Christmas ornament come to life.
Her earrings—Santa riding a candy cane, naturally—jingled as she gave me an exaggerated shrug.
“Why not?” I asked, half expecting an excuse like she needed her beauty sleep or something equally inane.
She leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though it was loud enough for the whole lobby to hear. “Because I’m expecting to hook up this week.”
I blinked, my brain short-circuiting. “I—What?”
“You heard me,” she said, her grin wicked as she patted my arm. “I’ve got a good feeling about this place. A woman has needs, Natalie.”
Margaret coughed, clearly trying to suppress a laugh, and I wished the floor would open up and swallow me.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “Fantastic. Just what I needed.”
MeMaw winked. “If you get desperate, you’re welcome to the cot in my room. It folds out right next to my bed.”
I blinked at her. “You mean the cot you will fold someone out on next to your bed.”
She winked. “It’s Christmas, baby girl. Miracles happen.”
As MeMaw sauntered off to inspect the cookie tray, I turned back to Margaret, praying she had some miracle solution. “So…just to confirm…there are no other options?”
She offered me a sympathetic smile. “I’m really sorry. We could put you on the waitlist if someone cancels?”
There were a lot of problems with this situation.
I didn’t have a working car, there weren’t any other hotels nearby, and paying for an Uber for a four-hour round trip drive every day until the wedding was going to be astronomical.
There was also the fact that I had paid enough attention to know that Paige had planned events every night, and the idea of dragging my ass two hours back home in the middle of the night was less than ideal.
Maybe they had a stable I could sleep in. That had worked out for someone in the past.
“You can stay with me,” Easton said oh so casually, slipping his key card into his back pocket like he hadn’t just detonated my last shred of chill with five casual words.
Margaret gasped, clapping her hands together like he’d just invented Christmas itself. “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!”
I gaped at her, because why was this stranger trying to ruin my life? “That’s actually a terrible idea.”
She waved off my panic with a dismissive flap of her hand. “Oh, don’t be silly! It’s a suite, dear. Plenty of space! One of you can take the couch—” Her lips twitched. “But why would you?”
I choked on air. My soul literally left my body.
Easton had the audacity to grin like it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“No, absolutely not,” I snapped, shaking my head so hard I probably looked like a bobblehead. “There’s gotta be another option.”
Margaret pursed her lips and turned back to her computer, clearly humoring me. “Well, let’s see…your grandmother said she needs her own room?—”
“For hooking up,” I muttered under my breath, already knowing that was a dead end.
Margaret continued scrolling on her screen. “Your parents are in the Mistletoe Lodge—romantic suite, big bathtub, very cozy. Not ideal.”
Rooming with my parents while they reenacted their second honeymoon. No. Not ideal was an understatement.
“I assume you don’t want to stay with the groom’s parents…”
I tuned her out as I mentally went through the list of people I knew were staying at the B&B this week.
The other bridesmaids were all married. Aunt Kathy snored like a freight train.
Uncle Clayton had weird rules about temperature control and made everyone sleep with the windows open, even in the snow.
I was officially out of options.
“Oh!” Margaret perked up like she’d just remembered a winning lottery ticket in her apron pocket. “You could stay in Santa’s Bunkhouse!”
I leaned forward. That sounded…better than a stable. I could get behind quaint.
“It’s where the flower girls and ring bearers are staying,” she finished with a proud smile. “It has plastic sheets, in case of accidents…and hot cocoa on tap!”
I groaned, rubbing my hands over my face.
Margaret grinned like she’d solved world peace. “Well, then!” She gestured between us with delight. “Looks like you two are roommates!”
I turned toward Easton, my mouth already open to tell him exactly where he could shove that smug little smile—only to catch him mid- fist pump .
A fist pump. With an actual arm flex and everything.
Like a child .
Like he’d won .
I narrowed my eyes. “I don't know why you’re celebrating.”
Easton tilted his head, still grinning. “You say that now…but wait until you see how good I still am at sharing a bed.”
I sucked in a breath. My pulse betrayed me, thudding like it was trying to beat its way out of my chest and leap into his arms.
Margaret giggled. Giggled like this was the best rom-com she’d ever seen, and she had front-row tickets.
“I’ll be sleeping on the couch ,” I said, glaring daggers at him.
He smirked, utterly unfazed. “Sure, Trouble. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
This was going to be a nightmare .
And not the fun, sexy kind where you wake up flushed and panting .
No. This was going to be the kind of nightmare where your ex is still stupidly hot, smells like a daydream, sleeps six feet away from you, and makes your panties combust every time he so much as breathes.
Awesome.
Merry fucking Christmas.