Chapter 8 #2
But I was also human .
And watching those women fawn over him—after knowing what it felt like to have him in my bed, in my life, in my soul—it hit a nerve. A frayed, raw, “I cried into a Blue Bell ice cream container the night we broke up” kind of nerve.
This exact scenario was why I had broken things off in the first place. Because no matter how much Easton said I was the only one, I’d always worried… what if he looked back ?
And then…he did look.
But not at them.
His gaze swept lazily across the room, like he wasn’t about to set me on fire with a single glance.
And then it landed on me.
Direct. Steady. Devastating.
Like I’d been the only one in the room the entire time.
I stiffened, trying to pretend I was fully focused on the half-melted ice cube in my glass. But I could feel him watching. Like an actual heat wave was passing through my body.
Every time I peeked? Yep. Still looking. A small, maddening smirk curving those stupid lips like he could see what he was doing to me. Like he knew how hard I was trying not to care.
Which, of course he did.
Because as much as I wished it wasn’t true, besides being heartbroken, I hadn’t changed that much in the last couple of years. And if there was anyone who knew me…it was him.
I groaned under my breath. “Why can’t he have hairy warts? ”
“Because that would be too convenient,” Paige said, popping up beside me like a gremlin.
She was grinning at me, already holding her own festive cocktail—some sparkly thing with a rosemary sprig and actual glitter floating in it. She was wearing a sparkly white cocktail dress, and she looked like the smuggest little shit I’d ever seen.
“You should just give in,” she said casually, sipping her drink like she wasn’t the devil incarnate.
“Aren’t you supposed to be circling the room, thanking guests, doing the bride thing?” I asked, nodding at the crowd of people milling around with their matching Christmas-themed drink cozies.
Paige raised one perfectly groomed brow. “Why would I circle the room when the entertainment is right here ?”
My eyes narrowed.
“I’ve already exchanged five bets that you crack tonight,” she added gleefully, swirling her drink with a flourish.
I rolled my eyes, not surprised in the least that she'd done that. “That’s rude. At least allow me to be in on the bet.”
“ Everyone’s betting on you,” she said brightly. “Aunt Kathy has fifty bucks on a ‘full makeout by the bonfire,’ and Levi thinks you’ll fake trip and fall into his arms like you’re in one of Easton’s movies.”
“I should trip,” I muttered, “just to take him out.”
She didn’t even bother responding to that, just took a slow sip of her drink and gave me a pointed look.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snapped. “You’re the one who invited him.”
“Levi invited him,” she said with a shrug. “It’s not my fault your unresolved sexual tension is the most entertaining part of the evening.”
“I hope you get glitter in your eyes.”
She snickered, entirely unfazed, as if the threat of ocular sparkle damage meant nothing to her. “I hope you get laid. We all have our holiday wishes. ”
Before I could come up with an appropriately scathing retort, the DJ’s voice boomed through the speakers, sounding way too cheerful for someone in charge of ruining lives. “All right, folks! It’s karaoke time! Who’s ready to get on stage and embarrass themselves in the name of Christmas?”
Paige let out a little squeal, immediately bouncing like she’d just been told Taylor Swift was about to enter the building.
“Oh! We’re doing ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside!
’” she declared, practically lunging over to where Levi was standing and grabbing him by the arm.
He looked alarmed but also resigned in the way men in long-term relationships often do.
Levi, bless him, let himself be dragged. “Can we do the version where she definitely wants to stay and it’s not creepy?” he asked as he stumbled after her.
“That’s the one I queued up,” Paige called over her shoulder, her drink still somehow intact. “We’re the progressive couple everyone wants to be!”
I blinked after them. “Great. Feminist Christmas karaoke. That’s…fine.”
As they climbed on stage and the crowd started cheering, I turned back to my drink like it held the answers to life’s deepest questions.
Maybe drinking myself into oblivion really should be the game plan tonight.
Karaoke was still going strong…which was to say, it was as wildly entertaining as it was an outright assault on the ears. I was equal parts impressed and deeply horrified.
My family and friends were not just bad at performing…they were offensively, enthusiastically terrible. If there were an award for “Most Likely to Shatter a Champagne Flute with Their Voice,” we would’ve swept the category. And that might’ve been generous.
MeMaw had already brought the house down with her deeply disturbing, pelvis-thrust-laden rendition of “Firework” by Katy Perry.
There were hand gestures. There was a wind machine someone had dragged in from who-knows-where.
There were sparkles involved, and I’m still not sure from where on her body they originated.
After that, the night had turned into a slow, glorious train wreck.
At the moment, Susie Cummins—who was, yes, still as unfortunately named as ever—had just finished what I think was supposed to be “Jingle Bells.” Somewhere between the second verse and the chorus, though, she’d gotten confused and started belting the lyrics to “Tubthumping” with such slurred conviction that the whole room joined in.
Now there was serious talk about adding Chumbawamba to every holiday playlist from here on out.
And for a moment…I was actually kind of enjoying myself.
I’d even smiled once.
And then it happened.
Easton stepped onto the stage.
And every molecule of joy in my body screamed and fled.
There were cheers, naturally; he looked like a god among mortals in that damn sweater.
A few gasps followed, mostly from the people who hadn’t grown up with him and were just now putting two and two together.
Judging by the way they were grabbing one another’s arms and pointing at him like he’d descended from Mount Olympus instead of driving here from town, they’d just realized Easton Maddox —actual movie star, human panty melter—was in the room.
He didn’t grab the mic and sing like a normal human.
Oh, no.
Instead, he looked right at me.
Don’t do it , Easton . Don’t do it . Save yourself from being murdered .
“Natalie,” he said into the microphone, all low and smooth, because Hollywood had obviously taken his self-preservation skills from him. “Come up here.”
I almost dropped my drink. I clutched it to my chest like it was a holy relic. Surely he didn’t just?—
“Come on, Trouble,” he said again, and his grin widened into something dangerous. “Don’t make me beg.”
Trouble?
He said that out loud. With sound. In front of people .
I shook my head with slow, dramatic defiance.
The crowd, the traitorous masses, did not appreciate my resistance. They began to chant. Yes. Chant . “Na-ta-lie! Na-ta-lie!” Like this was a gladiator ring and I was about to go fight for my dignity’s life.
And, of course, Paige, my beloved, evil sister, was no help. She appeared at my elbow like a drunk Christmas fairy, cheeks pink, eyes shiny, and beaming like she’d just won the lottery.
“Come on, Natty-kins,” she slurred gleefully, yanking on my arm like she’d just called dibs on humiliating me first. She jostled my drink—the fifth one, probably? Maybe sixth?—and I shot her a look of betrayal.
“Paige,” I hissed. “This is the kind of thing people never recover from. I will die up there. My soul will leave my body and haunt you forever.”
“You’ll be fine,” she chirped. “And if you’re not, I’ll play this at your funeral!”
That was not the comfort she thought it was.
“Natalie,” Easton drawled, and the crowd cheered again like he was announcing free puppies.
I flipped him off. Then downed the last of my drink like it was courage in liquid form and rose to face my doom.
“This is how people end up on viral YouTube compilations,” I muttered as I stomped forward, wobbling precariously on my heels.
Easton winked at me as I stumbled onstage. Unfortunately, it was much sexier than the bartender’s eye twitching. And unfortunately , it did far different things to my panties.
“I hate you,” I whispered, which came out more breathy and less full of loathing than I meant. Which frankly meant that the alcohol had kicked in…and I might be in trouble.
“Looking sexy when you’re angry is not helping your case,” he murmured back, just loud enough for me to hear.
I gave him a glare that would’ve killed a lesser man. Unluckily for me, Easton Maddox was not a lesser man.
Easton handed me the second mic, making sure that his fingers dragged against mine as he did so. Completely unnecessary if you asked me. I tried to move to the other side of the stage because distance seemed really important right now, but he grabbed my hand and kept me next to him.
I didn’t understand how it could still feel like this, like his hand was my home, even after all this time. Maybe I had been cursed that day when he’d walked into my middle school class, and I was going to feel like something was missing for the rest of my life.
Natalie , pull yourself together . Now’s not the time to go all morose .
The crowd hooted. The lights twinkled. Somewhere in the back, MeMaw whooped and yelled, “Take it off!” which I was praying wasn’t directed at either of us.
The music started, jingle bells with a jazzy undercurrent, and my stomach dropped.
Oh no. No , no , no , no .
“Santa Baby.”
He’d picked “ Santa Baby” ?
“I swear to all that is holy, Easton,” I muttered under my breath. “I will deck your halls.”
“Looking forward to it,” he murmured back, his voice dangerously close to my ear.
The intro came and went, and like a true professional, or maybe just a woman on her fifth…or sixth drink, I lifted the mic.