Chapter 15
NATALIE
T here were only a few things I truly feared in life.
One: spiders. Because—obviously.
Two: embarrassing myself at karaoke. All right , I conquered that one this week .
And three: mistletoe.
Yes, mistletoe.
Specifically, mistletoe hung by bed-and-breakfast owners in dimly lit hallways when I was trapped with my infuriatingly sexy ex-boyfriend who was actively campaigning to reclaim my heart and possibly destroy my sanity .
Which was precisely how I found myself now—standing there like a deer caught in festive headlights—beneath a deceptively innocent sprig of green, staring up at it like it might explode in a puff of glitter, while Easton lounged beside me, leaning casually against the wall like this was just another day in paradise.
He looked annoyingly perfect, of course. Tousled hair. The hint of scruff. That one rogue curl flopping over his forehead like it had been sculpted by a rom-com god. And the grin. That smug, sparkly-eyed, full-of-trouble grin that promised chaos and kisses and at least three types of regret.
“Mistletoe,” he observed unnecessarily .
“You planted it here,” I accused immediately, narrowing my eyes at the offending greenery.
He had the audacity to look faux-offended. “Planted? Like I’m out here gardening with holly and wire in the middle of the night?”
“Don’t play innocent, Elf Boy,” I muttered. “I see the glint in your eyes. This was not here last night.”
He laughed softly, the sound curling deliciously down my spine.
“You absolutely did this,” I said, crossing my arms. “This is like the third ambush in forty-eight hours. First the karaoke duet. Then the weirdly intimate hot cocoa moment. And now this.”
“First of all, I hit all my notes in that duet, so you’re welcome. Second, I did not plant this. I merely…noticed it. And appreciated its timing.”
I snorted. “You’re laying traps.”
“I’m improvising opportunities,” he said, inching a little closer. Not touching me. Just…hovering. Which somehow felt worse. Or better. Depending on whether you asked my brain or my hormones.
“What’s the endgame here?” I asked, chin lifting like I was preparing for battle. “Is this the part where I spontaneously fling myself into your arms?”
He shrugged with zero shame. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse. Usually by you.”
I attempted to sidestep him and the cursed mistletoe. He mirrored me like we were doing a weird, sexy two-step.
“Easton,” I warned.
“Nat, if I’d known mistletoe worked this well at making you flustered, I’d have bought the entire stock at the craft store.”
“I’m not flustered,” I lied, casually clutching the front of my shirt like it was the only thing anchoring me to this dimension .
He raised one perfect eyebrow. “Your cheeks are literally the color of Rudolph’s nose right now.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“It's snowing outside.”
“Holiday stress.”
His mouth tilted in a grin that had no business being legal. “Or maybe it’s because you’re thinking about kissing me.”
“Actually,” I said primly, crossing my arms and hoping my armpits weren’t visibly sweating, “I was thinking about the fastest way to remove mistletoe without being noticed. Preferably with fire.”
His smirk widened. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re stuck with tradition.”
“Tradition says kiss—not annoy—me into submission.”
He tilted his head, and his eyes darkened just enough to make my breath catch. “Submission, huh?” he echoed, voice rougher now. “Interesting word choice.”
Heat instantly swamped my entire existence. Face. Chest. Knees. Libido. All on high alert. Easton was too good at this—this teasing, magnetic I’m-too-hot-for-common-decency thing.
“Not what I meant,” I muttered, wishing a snow drift would conveniently appear inside the building and bury me.
Easton stepped closer. Not touching me—but the space between us had officially reached dangerously intimate territory. His voice dipped, low and coaxing. “Just one kiss,” he said. “For tradition’s sake.”
I glanced nervously down the hallway. Voices and laughter drifted from the kitchen and living room, the B&B filled with family, friends, and a whole host of people who didn’t need front-row seats to my emotional regression.
“One kiss?” I repeated skeptically, my voice laced with suspicion and not nearly enough resolve.
“Promise,” he said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart like we were signing a legal contract. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Scout. That’s not even the Scout sign. ”
He gave a roguish grin. “Then I’m honor bound by mistletoe laws alone. It’s sacred. Can’t break tradition.”
“You’re impossible,” I groaned, stepping closer despite myself. “One kiss. Quick. Like, peck-level quick. Like blink-and-you-miss-it quick.”
He didn’t move. Just smiled that slow, cocky smile…the kind that made me want to kiss him and punch him in equal measure. “So do it, then.”
I blinked. “What?”
He tilted his head, infuriatingly smug. “You said one kiss. Sounds like a dare to me. Go on, Trouble. Take it.”
Oh, he was the worst. The absolute worst.
So obviously…I did.
I leaned in, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest and the heat of his breath against mine. His scent—peppermint and something woodsy and infuriatingly Easton —wrapped around me, softening every edge of my resolve.
And then I kissed him.
Soft. Teasing. Barely there.
It wasn’t what I expected…not a fireworks-and-exclamation-point kind of kiss. More like an ellipsis. A breath. A sentence that wasn’t finished.
But he didn’t move, didn’t lean in. Just stood there, letting me take it.
And somehow, that rattled me more.
When I pulled back, my heart doing something uncoordinated in my chest, he was smiling. Still smug. Still annoyingly gorgeous.
But there was something gentler in it now. Something that made my breath catch.
“That wasn’t so terrible, right?” he murmured, still far too close.
“You didn’t even kiss me back,” I said before I could stop myself—and then immediately wishing I’d swallowed my tongue .
His eyebrows rose, that infuriating sparkle back in his eyes. “Oh. So now you want participation?” he asked, pointing upward. “Because technically…we’re still under the mistletoe.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re a full-time problem with part-time charm.”
“And yet, you haven’t walked away.”
I hesitated, biting my lip. He was too close. Too familiar in all the wrong ways. And the ache in my chest reminded me exactly why this was so dangerous.
Because Easton Maddox still had an irritatingly strong gravitational pull, and I was dangerously close to orbiting. One more second in his presence, and I was going to need NASA to extract me from his stupidly magnetic field.
I took a steadying breath, trying to convince myself I was in control of this situation and not, in fact, one ill-timed look away from launching myself into his arms.
I met his gaze. “Fine. One more. But just to prove I’m not flustered.”
His smile deepened, turning wicked and slow, like he already knew how this scene ended. “Sounds fair.”
I stepped back into him—only because I had something to prove, obviously—and braced my hands on his chest, trying not to notice how solid it was beneath my palms. His head dipped, his breath warm and mint-tinged against my mouth. And then he kissed me.
Properly.
No teasing this time. No skimming lips or breathy flutters. This was a kiss built to undo me…slow and thorough, his tongue brushing the seam of my mouth until I gasped, and he slid inside like he owned the place.
I melted.
There was no other word for it. My entire body sighed into him like it had just remembered what it felt like to be touched like this.
My fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer as he deepened the kiss, coaxing my mouth open wider, stealing breath and logic and every ounce of common sense I had left.
“Mmm,” he murmured against my lips, the sound low and pleased and thoroughly unfair. “Not flustered, huh?”
“Shut up,” I mumbled, too breathless to sound convincing.
His mouth trailed to my jaw, brushing kisses along the edge, softer now, more intimate. Like he was tracing old memories across my skin. I tipped my head back against the wall, unable to stop the involuntary whimper that escaped when he reached that sensitive spot just below my ear.
Fuck, I hated him. Okay…maybe I didn’t hate him. But I did hate how good he was at this. At me .
“Easton,” I managed weakly, breath hitching as his mouth skimmed the hollow of my throat, “someone could see us.”
“No one’s looking,” he whispered, lips ghosting just beneath my earlobe. “They’re all too busy arguing over eggnog ratios and whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”
“It’s not,” I said automatically, though my voice was breathless and my brain was barely functioning.
“Agreed,” he murmured, placing a featherlight kiss just below my jaw. “It’s just a winter action film with festive lighting.”
“This is a terrible idea,” I said, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer anyway.
“Awful,” he agreed, nuzzling the curve of my neck. “Disastrous, really. But…”
I felt the smirk before I heard the words.
“Tradition.”
“Your favorite excuse,” I gasped, shivering as he nipped playfully at my collarbone.
He grinned, completely unrepentant, his fingers still curved lightly around my waist. “Can’t argue with sacred holiday laws.”
“Oh, I can definitely argue,” I muttered, even as my hands clutched at his shirt like a woman thoroughly compromised .
He thought he’d won. That one kiss—okay, technically two—was enough to knock me off-balance.
And…fine. Maybe it had rattled me.
Maybe it had melted a few brain cells and made my knees feel suspiciously like pudding.
But I still had something to prove.
I wasn’t just going to fall back into orbit like some swoony little satellite.
I had control. I had logic. I had a plan.
I reached up without breaking eye contact and yanked the mistletoe clean off the ceiling.