Chapter 16
NATALIE
Me: SOS. I have tragic news. Send chocolate immediately.
Casey: Did you lose your phone in the freezer again?
Me: THAT HAPPENED ONCE!
Riley: Twice. But anyway, spill.
Me: I’m afraid I’ve contracted a dangerous condition.
Me: Symptoms: accelerated pulse, emotional vulnerability, mild nausea.
Me: WebMD says death is imminent.
Casey: …
Riley: Sounds familiar…
Me: It’s love, guys. I think I’m falling in love. Send help.
Riley: WITH EASTON???
Casey: Finally. I’m tired of pretending I don’t know already.
Me: How do you know? You’re not even here.
Casey: I can’t believe that’s a real question.
Riley: It’s insulting, actually.
Me: Shut up. This is serious. I didn’t sign up for feelings. I signed up for hot guys and tasteful holiday flings.
Casey: Aw, she’s malfunctioning.
Me: I swear to fucking hell…my chest hurts when he smiles. That can’t be normal, right?
Riley: Not normal, but totally on brand for you. Wait, is Easton still wearing those sweaters you told us about? That would explain the symptoms.
Me: Yes. And it’s making my brain do weird things. And my vagina.
Riley: RIP Natalie’s independence, we had a good run.
Casey: Ok, seriously though, why are you acting like love is a tragedy?
Me: Because it is?? Hello, have you ever seen a rom-com? Someone always ends up crying, usually me.
Casey: Yeah, but this is real life…not one of Easton’s movies.
Me: Real life is worse. People leave. Feelings change. It’s not exactly foolproof.
Riley: Easton’s not people, though. He’s your people.
Me: You don’t know that.
Casey: Nat. Be real for a second. Why don’t you want to fall in love?
Me: Because if I fall…What if he doesn’t catch me?
Riley: And what if he does?
Casey: Maybe it’s time to stop thinking about the fall and start thinking about the landing.
Me: Ok, fine, Yoda.
Riley: For real, though, you deserve happiness. Even if it scares you.
Me: Wow. Thanks for making me have feelings in a group chat named after Santa.
Casey: By the way, we did not approve changing the group name to “Santa’s Side Chicks.” Parker almost had a heart attack.
Me: And then you got jiggy with it, right? So, you’re welcome.
Riley: …
Casey: Go kiss Easton and tell him you like him.
Riley: And send pictures or it didn’t happen.
Me: I hate you both. Love you. But also hate you.
Casey: She said “love”! It’s a Christmas miracle!
Me: You’re embarrassing me, Case-face.
Riley: Have fun kissing Easton!
Casey: Tell his sweater we said hi.
Me: GOODBYE FOREVER.
T he moment I stepped onto the ice, I knew I’d made a terrible life decision.
Not the kind where you accidentally text your ex at two a.m. because Spotify shuffled to your song and you suddenly forgot how to have boundaries. And not even the kind where you order sushi from a gas station and spend the next twelve hours having a spiritual experience on your bathroom floor.
Yes . Both of those things had happened to me . No , I wasn’t proud of either .
This was worse. This was full-body regret. Existential crisis regret. The kind where your brain is screaming abort mission , your feet are sliding in opposite directions, and your dignity is clinging to the railing like it’s Jack in the ocean and Rose’s stupid fucking door she wouldn’t share.
“Are we sure this is a pre-wedding activity and not a secret plot to thin the bridal party?” I asked, arms windmilling as I tried to center myself, which only made me look like a drunk scarecrow attempting yoga.
“Technically,” Ellie said, gliding past me like an ice ballerina with a cider in hand. “Paige called it ‘festive bonding.’ So basically, yes.”
“Excellent,” I muttered. “I love bonding. Can’t wait to break my femur for it.”
The skating rink was a pop-up winter wonderland setup just down the road from the B&B.
Fairy lights were strung overhead in crisscrossing loops, casting a soft, enchanted glow across the ice like we were trapped inside a holiday snow globe.
A vendor cart off to the side was doing God’s work serving hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps, and someone had the gall to be DJing a mix of Christmas classics and, for some reason, Céline Dion’s “All By Myself . ”
Not that I was complaining. My knees were shaking too hard for me to do anything except mentally cling to her high notes for support.
Around me, other wedding guests skated like they were born on blades—laughing, twirling, holding hands. Meanwhile, I was inching along the wall like Bambi if Bambi had anxiety, schnapps breath, and a mild vendetta against winter sports.
Small mercy? Easton hadn’t shown up yet.
He’d been delayed—something about a last-minute call with his agent. Apparently, a new project was being fast-tracked, and he’d needed to step away before the group left for the rink.
Which was fine.
Really.
Totally fine.
Actually, it did give me time to maybe figure out how not to skate like an injured pelican before he arrived and saw me flailing.
Or—I don’t know—stage a convincing injury, spend the rest of the night sipping schnapps-laced cocoa, and dramatically sighing about the fragility of the human ankle.
Also a solid plan.
The best part? The entire rink had been rented out for the night to keep the chaos contained to the wedding guests. Which meant no stray paparazzi and, even better, no random fans showing up to witness me biting it in front of my famous ex-boyfriend.
Ex.
Right.
I kept calling him that in my head, but…he wasn’t really feeling like an ex lately.
Not with the way he looked at me .
Not with the way my heart kept acting like we hadn’t missed a single beat.
Ugh.
I was halfway through mentally calculating how long I needed to skate before I could “gracefully retire” to the sidelines when I heard it.
That voice.
Low. Smug. Laced with just enough mischief to make me want to bodycheck someone on purpose.
“Hey, Trouble.”
Oh no.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to turn. My entire bloodstream recognized Easton Maddox the second he entered the rink. It was like my hormones were on high alert. Code red : panty dropper incoming .
“Perfect,” I muttered under my breath. “Just in time to witness my untimely demise.”
He chuckled, the sound far too warm for this much ice. “You look like you’re really thriving out here.”
“I am thriving,” I said defensively, just as my left foot slid out like it was trying to disown me. I caught myself on the railing, barely. “This is all part of the routine.”
“I figured.”
I almost fell again—flailing, wobbling, one ankle dramatically turning inward—and it suddenly felt like way too much effort to pretend I was anything close to a world-class skater.
“I need a new set of legs, actually,” I admitted, gripping the railing and wobbling like a baby giraffe. “As we both know, I’m very good at a lot of things…but this is apparently not one of them. Makes Lincoln Daniels even more sexy, if you ask me.”
Easton’s eyes flicked to mine, his jaw tightening just slightly. There was a soft, unmistakable growl from somewhere deep in his chest.
Jealousy. Oh, he hated that.
But he didn’t say a word .
Because every warm-blooded human in North America knew Lincoln Daniels was sexy. It was a universal truth, like gravity or Mariah Carey owning Christmas.
Instead, Easton wordlessly pulled off his coat, dropped to sit on the nearest bench, and started lacing up his skates with the kind of quiet, efficient skill that made my stomach flip. Which reminded me, unfortunately, of something truly dreadful about him.
He was a great ice-skater.
Not just good. Stupid good. Like, smooth-as-silk, might’ve been cast in a “Disney on Ice” production kind of good.
He stepped onto the rink and glided a short distance with the grace of a man who had zero business being that smug about it. “Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder, like he was some knight in fleece armor. “You’ve got me now.”
“Oh great,” I muttered, preparing for death. “Are you going to carry me bridal-style around the rink while I sob into your shoulder?”
He glanced back at me like he was genuinely considering it. “I could. But we both know your pride might not survive.”
“My pride didn’t survive the moment I took a shot of schnapps and agreed to this, actually.”
He skated toward me, fast and smooth, and held out both hands like a damn Disney prince. “Come here.”
I glanced around nervously. Paige’s future in-laws were sipping cider by the heater. My mom was somewhere on the far end chatting up the officiant. MeMaw was trying to convince the DJ to let her perform a dramatic reading of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas over a trap beat.
She was already holding the mic. So there was that.
And at least five people were definitely staring at Easton like he’d skated right off a movie screen. Because, well, technically, he had .
“Nope.”
“Nat. ”
“I value my life,” I said, taking a half step back and pressing myself deeper into the wall like I could phase through it and escape.
“Come on,” he said, his voice softer now. Less teasing. “Just trust me.”
Ugh. I hated when he did that…when he dialed the charm down to sincerity. It was disarming. Like a heat-seeking missile aimed directly at my stupid, fluttery heart.
I stared at his hands. They looked warm. Safe. Deceptive .
After a beat too long, I sighed and placed mine in his.
Instant regret.
Instant butterflies.
“I hate you for being so good at this,” I muttered as he pulled me gently toward him, guiding me away from the wall.
“No, you don’t,” he said, smiling like he had a secret and I was it. “You love me.”
My heart hiccupped at the word. That word.
But I played it cool. I always played it cool.
“I tolerate you,” I said breezily. “I tolerate you with fondness.”
“That’s a dangerous level of affection, Trouble,” he murmured— spinning me —like I wasn’t a sentient panic attack in rental skates.
“Don’t get cocky.”
I let out a very undignified squeak as I nearly collided with a toddler in a puffy coat, but Easton caught me. Of course he did. His hands gripped my waist, grounding me instantly.
“Okay,” I panted, breathless. “You’re good. Exactly how are you so good again?”
“I played hockey for five years before I moved to town,” he said. “And also, I’m a man of many hidden talents.”
“How did I not know you played hockey?” I asked, trying to think if that had ever come up.
“I was always much too interested in finding out everything about you to tell you everything about me,” he said with a wink .
But for some reason, the thought of that didn’t sit well. And it made me think far too much.
I let him lead me around the rink, trying not to look like I was a malfunctioning Roomba. Every time I stumbled, he caught me. Every time I cursed under my breath, he laughed softly and told me I was doing great.
And I hated it.
I hated how good he felt.
How good this felt.
Like we still fit. Like we hadn’t been ripped apart, reshaped by heartbreak and distance and time. Like we were still made of the same notes in the same song, even if we hadn’t heard the melody in a while.
“You know,” he said, voice dropping into something lower, something that curled around my spine, “you’re better than you think.”
I raised a skeptical eyebrow, focusing on not toppling into a nearby bridesmaid. “At skating?”
He shook his head, a soft smile playing at his lips. “At letting go.”
I blinked at him, my heart thudding once, twice, too loud beneath my ribs. “That’s a bold observation from someone currently holding me upright.”
“And yet,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine, “you’re not fighting me off.”
I rolled my eyes to hide the flutter in my chest. “I’m cold and helpless and a little drunk. It’s purely survival instinct.”
“Of course it is,” he said with a grin that somehow looked like it knew every version of me: past, present, and the one I hadn’t quite become yet.
He slowed us to a gentle stop near the middle of the rink. The lights above sparkled gold and soft white, like someone had strung a galaxy across the night just for us. Music floated from the speakers—a slow song, something warm and crooning, the kind of track that always hit harder in December .
He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from my face, the tips of his fingers grazing my temple, my cheek. The touch was light, reverent. Like he didn’t want to startle the moment in case it decided to vanish.
“You know what I wish?” he asked, his voice quieter now. Almost careful.
I looked up at him, my throat tightening. “What?”
“I wish you’d stop being so scared of me.”
I blinked. The words landed with a strange sort of precision, right where all my doubts lived.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You are,” he said without accusation. Just truth. “Not in a big, dramatic way. But in the small, quiet ways. You flinch every time I get too close to the truth.”
I tried to laugh it off, to cut the tension before it grew teeth. “You’re very full of yourself tonight.”
But he didn’t smile. He didn’t joke.
“I’m full of you,” he said simply. “All the versions of you I’ve ever loved. The girl in the truck bed under the stars. The woman standing in front of me now. All of it. I’ve carried you with me. And I’m not going anywhere, Nat. No matter how many walls you put up.”
My breath caught in my chest like it didn’t know how to get out.
I wanted to say something. To tell him he was wrong or right, or that I didn’t know which way was up anymore when he looked at me like that. But the words got stuck somewhere in the hollow between my heartbeat and the memories I hadn’t dared to touch.
He let the silence sit between us like it deserved space. Then, with a small smile, he offered me his hand again.
“One more lap?”
I nodded, afraid if I spoke, the emotion blooming in my chest would spill out all over the ice.
This time, I leaned into him without hesitating .
Let him guide me.
Let the rhythm of the glide, the hum of the music, the shimmer of lights blur out everything else. The past, the future, the thousand ways we could mess this up again.
Because right now, I didn’t want to be afraid.
I just wanted this —the steady pulse of his hand in mine, the warmth of him beside me, the soft scrape of blades against ice and the promise of something not yet broken.
And for one perfect lap, I let it be enough.