Chapter 10
NATALIE
P ain.
That was the first thing I registered. A dull, throbbing ache that pounded behind my eyes like a sledgehammer. Every muscle in my body had apparently filed a formal complaint, and I wanted to burrow under the covers and never emerge again.
The second thing I noticed?
I wasn’t alone.
The realization slithered in slowly, creeping through the fog of my hangover.
A heavy arm was wrapped around my waist like it had a right to be there, fingers resting low on my hip in a way that screamed possessive and delicious and deeply unhelpful to my sense of self-preservation.
My limbs were tangled around him like I was some kind of desperate, drunk octopus.
My leg was tossed over narrow hips like I’d been practicing for a gymnastics event in my sleep.
My cheek? Firmly planted against smooth, naked man-chest.
Oh no.
Oh no , no , no .
I cracked one eye open.
Easton.
His name flashed in my brain like a neon warning sign. My stomach flipped—possibly from the hangover, possibly from the sheer hotness of him lying there looking like a GQ spread. Hair a mess. Eyelashes obnoxiously thick. Jaw shadowed with stubble that had definitely done things to me last night.
My brain short-circuited.
Fuck.
This was not how the morning after was supposed to go. There was supposed to be a healthy amount of regret and maybe a hasty escape wrapped in a comforter. There was definitely not supposed to be cuddling. And definitely not this much touching .
His hand flexed in his sleep, gripping my hip tighter like even unconscious Easton wasn’t ready to let me go.
Memories from last night came rushing back. The alley. His mouth. My mouth. The way we’d devoured each other like we were starving, like we were trying to make up for all the lost time in one night.
And then?
The bar.
I had gone back to the bar and promptly started to drink. Possibly a hundred of those devil drinks, aka Rudolph’s Nose or whatever they’d been called. And whiskey. So much whiskey. I remembered lifting a glass like I was toasting to my own destruction.
Apparently, I’d succeeded.
Fuck. It hurt to think.
At some point I’d obviously blacked out.
I groaned internally, squeezing my eyes shut as if that would somehow rewind time and undo the absolute disaster I had walked into on my own two feet.
Or my vagina. I was pretty sure that my traitorous vagina had been steering last night’s ship, and clearly she’d decided to go down with it. In spectacular fashion.
I should move. I needed to move.
I would move.
Any second now .
Except the second I tried to shift away from him, my body revolted like I was betraying it. My head pounded in angry pulses, my stomach twisted in a way that did not feel promising, and everything, everything , felt like it had been run over by a Mack truck.
I felt gross. Hungover and sticky and in dire need of a shower.
Easton let out a low sigh in his sleep, his chest rising and falling against mine in the rhythm of someone completely at peace.
Must be nice .
I stared at the ceiling, debating whether I should try to sneak out or just die right here. But the warmth of him, the safety I hadn’t felt in so long , it wrapped around me like a blanket I didn’t remember missing until it was back.
Just for a second , I told myself.
Just one, tiny, hungover second.
I’d lie here.
Let the room stop spinning. Let the nausea fade. Then I’d escape this tangled mess of limbs and lust and lies with what little remained of my dignity.
That was the plan.
The very solid, very reasonable plan.
But instead of eventually moving…I melted.
The tension drained from my shoulders. My fingers relaxed their death grip on the sheet. My head dropped back against his chest like it had always belonged there.
And before I could talk myself out of it, before I could remind myself of the million reasons this was a bad idea…I drifted off again.
Warm. Sated. Safe.
Curled in the arms of the one man I had absolutely sworn I was over.
EASTON
I wasn’t going to let her avoid me.
She was trying. I’d give her that. Like her life depended on it. Like eye contact might actually kill her. Frankly, it was adorable.
We were at some post-party event Paige and Levi were calling a Hangover Brunch—complete with a Bloody Mary bar, mimosas in the hands of toddlers— Okay , not really , but it felt that way —and whispers of a Santa appearance.
The whole thing felt like a fever dream of holiday chaos, but it was a good call.
Nearly everyone who’d been at karaoke last night had been obliterated . Including Natalie.
My Natalie.
Fuck, she’d been cute last night…just soft and tipsy enough to stop pretending she didn’t want to hold my hand.
Her head had rested on my shoulder like it had always belonged there.
I’d even snuck a couple selfies of us while she wasn’t looking—nothing scandalous, just her tucked into my side with the kind of peace on her face that made my chest hurt.
I’d wait to show her those, though. Timing was everything. Right now, she’d probably scream and launch her mimosa at me if I even hinted at them.
Speaking of mimosas…Natalie was currently sitting as far from me as physically possible in the room.
Her focus was laser-pointed on the glass in front of her like it held the answers to all of life’s mysteries.
Or, more likely, like she could manifest it into a shield and block me from her memory entirely.
I watched her, taking a sip of my coffee and pretending to care about the guy in a reindeer onesie making balloon animals. She was flustered.
And she hated that she was flustered.
I knew her too well—her tells, her habits, the way her foot tapped when she was anxious or overstimulated. She was at war with herself right now, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t entertaining as hell .
But I wasn’t here to play. I was here to win her back.
I smirked to myself, strolling over to the buffet and loading up a plate—not for me.
For her . The plate practically looked like it had been curated by a personal chef who’d spent years studying her exact taste buds.
Blueberry pancakes. Crisp bacon. Scrambled eggs with a ridiculous amount of cheese.
I even made her a coffee exactly how she liked it, a splash of milk, two shots of espresso, and five tablespoons of sugar… because I wasn’t above playing dirty.
The second I placed the plate in front of her, she narrowed her eyes at me like I’d just handed her a proposal on bended knee instead of breakfast. Her cheeks went pink, which only made me grin harder.
She was so fucking beautiful it actually hurt to look at her.
I winked before sliding into a chair a few spots down…close enough to watch her squirm, but far enough to give her the illusion of space. I stretched out, all fake nonchalance, like my heart wasn’t thudding in my chest every time she looked at me.
“You looked hungry, Trouble.”
She stared at me with that look that made men flinch and wait for objects to be thrown. “Did you poison this?”
I leaned forward, voice low, just for her. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d just kiss you again.”
Her fork froze halfway to her mouth, eyes wide like she’d forgotten I was capable of weaponizing charm.
And then—then—she took a bite of the pancakes.
Her lashes fluttered.
Her lips parted just slightly.
For half a second, she forgot to be mad.
And that , that tiny flicker of pleasure on her face, was everything. My own little Christmas miracle.
I adjusted my dick under the table because apparently some things hadn’t changed over the years…
like the fact that I was still painfully attracted to everything Natalie did.
Chewing? Turn-on. Sipping a mimosa? Somehow erotic.
Literally just existing? Torture. She could be reading a cereal box, and I’d be halfway to losing it.
I dug into my own food, doing my best impression of a man with chill, and pretended not to notice how her shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
How the tight lines around her mouth eased as she took another bite of pancake, the tiniest sigh escaping her like the food had knocked down at least one of the walls she kept barricading between us.
If this was what it took to break down her walls—one carefully planned breakfast at a time—I was willing to play the long game.
I just needed to keep pushing.
I took a sip of my coffee and decided to keep the momentum going. “You look beautiful,” I said smoothly, like it was just a casual observation and not the culmination of twenty-three months of deprivation.
Natalie snorted into her mimosa, coughing a little as she swallowed. “Well, obviously. What do you want?”
I grinned at the sass, loving her more in that moment than was probably healthy. “What, a guy can’t compliment his—” Ex-girlfriend ? Soulmate ? Girl who had broken his heart but still owned every inch of it ? “Girl?”
She arched a brow, her expression somewhere between amused and mildly homicidal. Her mouth opened, probably to tell me I had absolutely lost my mind, but before she could get the words out, the double doors burst open behind us.
An obnoxious, booming “HO, HO, HO!” rolled across the room like thunder.
Every head turned as “Santa Claus” made his grand entrance.
Except, not just any Santa Claus.
Brian. Fucking. Sanders.
Natalie groaned under her breath, dragging a hand down her face like she couldn’t believe her life had sunk this low. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. ”
Brian. Of course it was Brian.
He’d spent all of high school trailing behind Natalie like a sad golden retriever, acting like if he just flexed hard enough in gym class, she’d magically realize he was her soulmate.
I’d blocked his number from her phone twice junior year.
Once because he “accidentally” sent her a shirtless pic.
The second time because he made a playlist called “Songs That Remind Me of Natalie’s Smile ” .