Chapter 8
NATALIE
T he bar was buzzing with holiday energy, all glitter and jingle and very loud Mariah Carey.
Twinkling Christmas lights were strung across the ceiling like a net of cheer and poor electrical decisions, and garlands wrapped around every beam like the building itself had gotten stuck in a tinsel tornado.
A DJ in an ugly sweater that read Sleigh All Day was spinning upbeat remixes of Christmas classics, and everyone was in such a good mood it was actually starting to feel suspicious.
My sister looked like a literal heroine, glowing with post-engagement sparkle and bridal glee as she clung to Levi, who had the dreamy smile of a man in love and was also slightly buzzed on eggnog.
Their joint bachelor/bachelorette party was officially in full swing—the first stop on the week-long wedding train to matrimony.
Everyone was disgustingly festive. Disgustingly in love. Disgustingly perfect.
And me? I was on the verge of needing a full-body exorcism just to stay upright.
Because Easton was here.
Somewhere.
Lurking. Like a sexy, brooding Christmas spirit of heartbreak past.
I hadn’t seen him yet, but I felt him. Like some kind of soul-splitting sixth sense that whispered You’re about to humiliate yourself again — run .
And I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to deal with it yet.
I’d spent the rest of today successfully avoiding him while I helped Paige with wedding stuff. I was pretty sure, though, that I wouldn’t be able to avoid him tonight.
“Come on, Nat!” a bubbly voice called, and before I could escape, Ellie, one of our high school friends, slid a sparkly red cocktail into my hand like she was passing me a grenade.
“It’s called Jingle Juice,” she chirped, winking. “Basically Christmas in a cup. Drink up!”
I pasted on my I’m fine smile, nodded like a bobblehead, and threw back almost the entire glass like it was NyQuil on a sick day.
It tasted like cranberry juice, peppermint vodka, and maybe cinnamon?
And definitely regret. A lot of regret.
Then I heard it.
The giggle.
Not just any giggle. That giggle. The one that sounded like high-pitched fairy bells of female thirst. It was the giggle that followed Easton Maddox around like a parade of desperate puppies.
Which meant…he had entered the building.
Mayday . Mayday .
That giggle was an obnoxious sound that also came out of my mouth when faced with his perfection, so it was best that I didn’t look over at him.
Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself any more than I already had running out of the room after I’d seen his ass.
It was a really good ass , though .
I did what any mature, grounded adult woman would do in that moment.
I fled .
Okay, not fled , exactly…but I did speed-walk to the nearest bar like my heels were on fire and the bartender had a fire extinguisher.
The man behind the counter looked up as I approached, offering a smile so dazzling I felt like I should be paying admission. Blonde, tan, and clearly someone who’d rehearsed his smolder in front of the mirror, he leaned forward with practiced ease.
“What can I get you?” he asked, his voice like melted caramel and confidence.
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve flirted. At least a little. I might’ve tossed my hair, bitten my lip, leaned in. But right now? He might as well have been a decorative reindeer.
Absolutely nothing.
No spark. No flutter. Not even a flicker.
It was like Easton had short-circuited my entire romantic operating system and left nothing but static in his wake.
“Whatever has the most alcohol,” I said dryly, throwing back the rest of my original cocktail before propping my elbows on the bar.
He chuckled, the sound low and smooth, clearly not deterred by my lack of enthusiasm. “Rough night already? I thought you just got here?”
He winked, and it wasn’t even a subtle wink. It was one of those Hello , I have been watching you since you entered the premises winks.
Normally I would love that kind of stalker behavior…It was kind of my brand. I mean, the fanfic I used to write in middle school…A lot of stalkers in those pages.
But clearly Easton Maddox had broken me in ways I hadn’t fully accepted yet. Because I felt nothing . Zero. Zilch. Nada.
The flirting bounced off my very dry, very unimpressed vaginal region like rubber bullets off a tank. There was a tumbleweed rolling through my pants. My hoo-ha had packed a bag and moved to another zip code .
“You have no idea,” I muttered as I stared at the rows of liquor bottles behind him, pretending to inspect them while really just avoiding everything else.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, reaching for a laminated drink menu with the sort of practiced flair that told me this wasn’t his first rodeo with sad girls in sequin dresses. “The bride and groom really went all out with the Christmas spirit. Let’s see what’s on tonight’s festive hit list.”
He cleared his throat like he was preparing to perform at Carnegie Hall. “We’ve got ‘ Santa’s Slushy Surprise ,’ ‘ Reindeer Rum Punch ,’ ‘ Nog on the Rocks ,’ and my personal favorite”—he paused dramatically—“‘ The Ho-Ho-Ho-Tini .’”
I blinked at him. “Are…are those real?”
He tapped the menu solemnly. “Straight from the bride’s brain to this laminated piece of art.”
Of course. It was all very Paige. Only she could find a way to combine eggnog, puns, and alcohol into a theme.
I blinked at him, wondering how long it had taken my sister to come up with those names. “Which one will make me forget my life the fastest?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Reindeer Rum Punch.” The conviction in his voice was almost unsettling. “It’ll take you to the edge of oblivion and then back again just in time for ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You.’”
That…actually sounded perfect.
“As long as it doesn’t end with me sobbing into a plastic wreath or flashing the valet, we’re good,” I muttered, sinking onto the barstool like my feet had declared a mutiny. These shoes were not made for walking. They were made for standing still and looking hot.
Another reason why I needed to ride that fine line between drunk and wasted.
He winked again. Maybe something was wrong with his eye. He was doing that an awful lot.
He smirked as he grabbed a shaker and started working his mixology magic.
“So,” he said, tilting his head as he tossed in a splash of something bright red and alarming.
“Why’s a girl as pretty as you looking like she’s carrying the weight of the world?
Hate the bride and groom? Hate Christmas? Secretly afraid of tinsel?”
I snorted. “None of those. It’s…just one of those nights.”
“Ah,” he said knowingly, tossing in another liquor with a little extra flourish. “Let me guess—man trouble?”
I didn’t respond, but I felt my lips twitch despite myself. He was persistent, I’d give him that.
A minute later, he set a bright red drink in front of me. “Here you go. One Reindeer Rum Punch. And there’s a bonus that comes with this drink.”
I lifted an eyebrow as I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip. Wow. That was a lot of rum. And some other sweet flavor I couldn’t really identify but was actually delicious. I kind of loved it.
“What kind of bonus?” I finally asked, lifting the glass to my lips and taking another long sip. Honestly, I only wanted a bonus if it came in the form of a tranquilizer dart or three more shots of tequila.
The bartender leaned in like he was about to whisper sweet nothings into my soul. “My number.”
I snorted. Loudly. In a very unsexy, very nasal kind of way. He flinched like I’d just slapped him with a snow-dusted tree branch.
His hopeful face fell. “You’re not even going to pretend to flirt back?”
I sighed, tapping my fingers against the sticky bar. “Sorry. It’s not you. It’s me.”
“Classic line,” he said, trying to turn his pout into something charming. Bless his heart, he was trying so hard. But I wasn’t biting. And not just because my ovaries were still on a full-blown strike.
I needed to get out of here. Unfortunately, the other bar—the one without the overly ambitious flirting—was all the way across the room.
Where he was.
And then it happened again. The sound. That unmistakable, shrill, hormone-laced giggling.
I froze. My fingers tightened around my drink.
Don’t do it , Natalie .
Don’t be that girl .
But I was already glancing over my shoulder before my brain could tell my neck no .
And there he was.
Easton . Fucking . Maddox .
Leaning against the opposite bar like he’d been sent straight from every erotic dream I’d ever had.
He was wearing a dark green sweater that hugged his body like it had taken an oath to ruin lives.
And it was succeeding. The sleeves were pushed up just enough to show off the veins in his forearms…
veins that had absolutely no business looking that good.
He laughed at something someone said, his stupid jawline doing that thing where it flexed and made me irrationally angry.
His hair fell into his face, artfully tousled and just the right amount of I didn’t try but look at me being perfect anyway.
Unlike the bartender’s gelled mess, I knew for a fact that Easton’s version was real. Real and dangerous.
My fists tightened in his hair , holding him to me as his tongue licked through my folds . He forced two fingers inside me , and I whimpered as my orgasm approached …
NOPE .
I threw back the rest of my drink like it was holy water and I needed to exorcise the memory of that particular orgasm immediately.
Fuck.
I looked around the bar, trying to find a distraction, but all I saw were a bunch of wide-eyed girls clustered around Easton like they were auditioning for The Bachelor : Mistletoe Edition .
They were giggling and flipping their hair, glancing over their shoulders like one seductive glance would unlock the key to his heart and his… assets.
Idiots.
Okay, no. That wasn’t fair.
I was a girl’s girl. I was. And I supported all women in all their pursuits of hotness and happiness.