Chapter 8 #3
“Santa baby… ”
My voice was breathy, low, borderline sultry—and yes, I regretted everything .
I could feel Easton watching me, no doubt a slow grin spreading across his face. He hadn’t even sung a note yet, but the smug bastard was already winning.
I continued the song, doing my best not to shrivel into dust under the weight of a hundred pairs of staring eyes—and his. I kept my gaze on the ceiling, knowing one look at him would melt me straight into the floor.
I was halfway through the second verse, cheeks on fire, when his voice joined in—smooth and deep and so unfairly confident it made my knees wobble.
I actually stumbled. Stumbled . I forgot the lyrics. I forgot my name.
Easton. Was. Singing.
And he sounded like some kind of Christmas angel who’d had too much whiskey and sin. I wasn’t sure how all Hollywood actors seemed to know how to sing…but he sure could.
He crooned into the mic like he’d been born on a stage, his grin full of wicked promise as he glanced sideways at me…like he knew exactly how unhinged I was going to be after this.
The room was in shambles .
Paige was crying with laughter. MeMaw had pulled out her phone and was recording. Someone yelled, “Kiss! Kiss!” which I was going to assume was ironic and not a direct order from the gods of holiday mayhem.
I turned back to the mic, my face on fire, my brain doing everything except cooperating.
Easton leaned in beside me, his voice smooth as silk and full of mock innocence as he delivered his next line. His tone was all charm and wicked suggestion, his eyes practically glowing under the stage lights.
Then he glanced at me again, sideways, sly. His green eyes lit with mischief as his hand slid to the small of my back.
I nearly forgot how to breathe .
Because of course he wasn’t just singing.
He was performing .
And I was the stage.
I nearly combusted.
We were inches apart now, singing into each other’s space, the crowd forgotten, the music just a vehicle for this ridiculous tension that had been steadily smoldering since I fell into that bush.
Easton’s voice slid against mine like velvet ribbon, and I hated how much I liked the way it sounded. Smooth, sinful, a little smug. He wasn’t just singing…he was seducing me. In front of everyone .
His fingers ghosted along my bare arm again, like he was testing how many light touches it would take to unravel me completely.
Spoiler alert: we were close.
“Santa baby…” I sang, trying to keep my tone light and cheeky, as the lyrics demanded, but the truth was I could barely breathe. My body was screaming danger , my brain was buffering, and my ovaries were sending up flares.
He leaned in, his lips barely brushing the mic. “Beeeen…”
I almost dropped the mic. Not because I forgot the words. But because his voice had dipped into this husky register that made my thighs clench like he was the lead singer for the boy band I’d crushed on all growing up. I risked a glance at him…and immediately regretted it.
Green eyes. Locked on mine. Full of heat and history and the unmistakable spark of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
I snapped my gaze forward again. Focus , Natalie . You’re here to sing and survive , not combust onstage .
And then he touched me again—just the small of my back this time, as if to “guide me” into the final chorus like he was some kind of chivalrous holiday menace. I knew that touch. Knew how it had once made me feel safe and on fire all at once. Knew that it would haunt me later.
“Santa cutie…”
My voice cracked. He smiled.
This was public foreplay, and he was thriving . Meanwhile, I was seconds from jumping off the stage and hiding behind the bar with nothing but a bottle of vodka and a plate of reindeer-shaped cookies to comfort me.
The song slowed, our voices blending on the final verse. He turned to face me fully now, like we were alone in this little holiday hellscape. His voice softened, deepened.
“Hurry…tonight.”
It was criminal. That note. The way he held it. The way he held me —not with his hands, but with every inch of his stupid, perfect presence.
The room exploded in applause, hoots and hollers filling the air, and someone in the back shouted, “GET MARRIED ALREADY!”
Before I could turn and bolt, Easton dropped to his knees like a literal Christmas rom-com hero, his eyes shining, his mouth curved into a grin that could melt the North Pole.
Mic still in hand, he lifted it like he was serenading me personally. “Please, baby,” he crooned with a wink. “Hurry down the chimney tonight…”
Laughter burst through the crowd. MeMaw screamed, “I’LL OFFICIATE RIGHT NOW!” which really didn’t help my blood pressure.
My knees wobbled. My chest heaved. And I stared down at him, the world spinning just a little too fast.
“Easton,” I whispered because it was the only word I could summon. I wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a warning or just me being delirious with lust and nostalgia.
He grinned up at me, all dimpled charm and underlying devastation. But something flickered behind it. Something raw. Something real .
“Going to give me what I want, baby ?” he asked, low and private and almost unsure .
I swallowed hard, the ache behind my ribs blooming into a full-blown ache in my soul. That touch of vulnerability…of realness. It caught me off guard. It twisted something inside me that had already been stretched too thin.
“Say something,” he murmured, the humor fading from his face, his voice rougher now. “Anything.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
The crowd was still cheering. Someone somewhere was yelling, “Kiss him!” and I was ninety-nine percent sure MeMaw had climbed onto a chair. But none of it mattered. All I could feel was him. All I could see was him.
And that was the problem.
I shoved the mic into Easton’s hands, ignoring the way his fingers curled around mine like he didn’t want to let go—and bolted off the stage.
I needed air.