Chapter 20
NATALIE
I knew I was in trouble the moment Easton pulled a baseball cap low over his eyes and slipped on dark sunglasses before stepping out of his truck in front of the mall.
Nobody that ridiculously good-looking ever blended into a crowd—certainly not at Christmas time, when people were already half feral with stress, peppermint mochas, and BOGO sales.
“You realize you look like every celebrity who’s trying not to look like a celebrity, right?” I asked as he helped me out of his truck.
He grinned, adjusting his hat with exactly the amount of smugness required to make my knees misbehave. “What do you want me to do? Wear a fake mustache and trench coat?”
“That might actually help,” I muttered, falling in step beside him as we headed toward the entrance. “Though, then we’d just look like we were reenacting a live-action Carmen Sandiego .”
Easton glanced sideways at me, lips twitching. “I think you secretly want me to get mobbed by fans.”
“Trust me,” I said, clutching my purse like a shield. “Getting crushed to death by overly enthusiastic teenagers waving glitter signs is not how I envision going out. Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies—I’ve told you this before. ”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t expect any homemade glitter signs from you anytime soon?”
I narrowed my eyes, shuddering dramatically. “Don’t even joke about that, Maddox.”
He chuckled, reaching out without thinking to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
It was such a simple thing.
Barely a breath of touch. But my heart stuttered.
Because something had changed.
It wasn’t just the echo of his voice in my head— You’re mine , Natalie. Or the way I’d said I’m yours back like I was under some kind of slow-burn spell.
It was everything since.
The way his hand brushed mine now—not an accident, not a hesitant maybe, not some faded ghost of what we used to be. His fingers threaded firmly through mine, as if he’d claimed the right to touch me whenever he wanted.
And the wildest part? I didn’t pull away.
And we were in public…
We went through the sliding doors, immediately hit by the scent of clove-studded oranges and cinnamon and the cheerful drone of “Jingle Bells” playing for probably the millionth time this season.
The mall was pure holiday frenzy: packed crowds, lines snaking from every register, fake snow fluttering from the ceiling in some places, and a Santa in the center of it all, who looked desperately in need of retirement.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.
I pulled it out instinctively, frowning at the screen. It was the same unknown number that had called before. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the answer button. A strange twist of unease curled in my stomach again, but I shoved it down.
Not today.
Not here.
I hit ignore, stuffing the phone back into my pocket and forcing a smile as Easton glanced over .
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yep, just holiday spam. Probably trying to sell me reindeer-shaped waffle makers or something.”
Easton’s shoulder brushed mine as he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “So, do you have a plan, or are we winging this like the absolute chaos magnet you are?”
I glanced down at my crumpled list. “According to Paige’s text rants, we still need a gift for Aunt Kathy, something for Paige’s murdery cat, and a mystery item she won’t name but insists I’ll know when I see it.”
“Wait,” he cut in. “We’re shopping for a cat?”
I looked at him deadpan. “You haven’t met Lucifer? He’s an eight-pound demon. If he doesn’t get a gift, someone loses a limb.”
Easton burst out laughing. “All right, homicidal cat gift first. Priorities.”
We wandered through the mayhem, hand in hand, and I was embarrassingly aware of every time his thumb swept over mine.
Easton Maddox—former heartbreak, current maybe-something—was shockingly good at picking out cat toys.
He held up a feathery thing on a spring with the seriousness of someone choosing a diamond ring.
“You know a disturbing amount about cats,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“My publicist has three. They’ve all evil and try to overthrow her house on a weekly basis, but there’s one who actually tolerates me,” he said, like that was a perfectly normal sentence.
“Let me guess…it’s the one that knocks over the Christmas tree for fun, isn’t it?”
He grinned. “Guilty. That little psychopath thinks I’m cool.”
I laughed. “Figures you’d bond with the diabolical one.”
“Clearly,” he said, nudging me with a flirty wink, “I have a type.”
I shot him a look. “You did not just compare me to a sociopathic cat. ”
“I didn’t say sociopathic ,” he replied, all wide-eyed innocence. “There’s a subtle difference.”
We were rounding a corner by a kiosk selling hot cocoa-scented candles when it happened.
A scream.
High-pitched. Terrifying. The kind of sound that usually accompanied a boy band member taking off a shirt.
Easton and I both turned simultaneously, looking back toward the food court.
A pack of teenage girls were staring at us.
Two dozen at least, charging like caffeinated elves on a mission, phones raised high and glitter posters waving wildly—the very ones we’d just been mocking.
I wasn’t sure how they’d managed to create those in the small amount of time we’d been here.
But evidently the gloriousness of Easton’s face could create miracles.
I watched as one girl face-planted over her UGG boot, popped back up like it was nothing, and kept sprinting on sheer adrenaline and fangirl determination.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathed, panic already fizzing in my chest.
Easton took a step back, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. “I think they recognized me.”
“You think?” I deadpanned, heart hammering as the crowd surged closer.
“Run?” I asked, only half joking.
He didn’t hesitate. His grip on my hand tightened. “Definitely run.”
We wove through crowds, dodging shoppers and blinking reindeer displays, sprinting past a toddler sobbing in Santa’s lap, nearly colliding with an inflatable snowman the size of a sedan.
“I blame you!” I gasped, my hair flying, boots slipping slightly on the polished floor. “You and your stupid jawline!”
He threw a wicked grin over his shoulder. “Don’t forget my abs. They’re also very recognizable.”
“I’m actively regretting knowing you!”
“Liar. ”
We veered left into a narrow corridor, hoping the detour would shake them off. Ducking behind a giant inflatable Santa, we crouched down, both of us gasping for breath.
Or at least I was. Easton looked mildly winded at best. Seriously…what was with all the exercise I was getting this week?
Easton peeked around the edge, his hat now askew and his sunglasses completely crooked. “I think we lost them.”
I rolled my eyes, wiping hair off my face. “You say that now. Give it ten seconds.”
Sure enough, a piercing shriek echoed from somewhere disturbingly nearby. Another. Then another. He swore under his breath and grabbed my hand again. “Come on!”
We bolted down the corridor and burst out into the open again, this time heading toward the food court like it was a finish line.
I was half certain that someone in a Chick-fil-A visor judged me as we sprinted past, but I didn’t have time to unpack that.
Easton pointed frantically toward a nearby clothing store. “Quick, in there!”
We dodged past bewildered employees, darting into the maze of clothing racks. I crouched behind a rack of hideous Christmas sweaters, holding my breath, eyes wide as Easton slid in beside me.
He chuckled softly, grinning despite our situation. “Not exactly subtle, are we?”
“I told you that disguise sucked,” I hissed, catching my breath. “You look like someone trying not to be recognized, and therefore were immediately recognized.”
He raised his brows. “You love it.”
“Your ego needs therapy,” I whispered fiercely.
“You love that, too.”
I shook my head, heart hammering. “We’re gonna get caught.”
“Probably,” he agreed, cheerfully casual, like this was a midday stroll through Central Park and not a manhunt.
I stared at him. “Why aren’t you panicking? ”
He tilted his head, looking at me like I was the one missing the obvious. “Because I’m having fun.”
“You call this fun?”
He leaned closer, eyes softening slightly. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”
My heart flipped stupidly in my chest, but before I could reply, someone gasped loudly.
“Oh my gosh! There he is!”
We froze.
Both our heads whipped toward the sound. A teenage girl, maybe fifteen or so, stood a few feet away, clutching her phone like it was the Holy Grail. Her eyes bounced between him and me like she couldn’t decide who to scream at first.
Easton closed his eyes for half a second. “Time’s up.”
I groaned.
The girl didn’t scream, bless her…but she did move, fast. Within seconds, the store filled with the pitter-patter of rapidly approaching footsteps, hushed shrieks, and the telltale glint of camera lenses.
We were surrounded.
There was no more running. No more pretending he wasn’t him . And certainly no more hiding the fact that he was holding my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Easton stood slowly, pulling me up with him, his sunglasses coming off in one smooth, practiced motion as he led us out of the clothing store and into the concourse so we weren’t caged in on all sides.
He gave me a small, almost apologetic smile, like he hated dragging me into the spotlight but wasn’t letting go, either.
“You ready?” he asked gently.
“Nope,” I said, plastering a fake smile. “But I guess we’re doing this.”
The crowd descended fast, like a glitter-storm of teenage shrieks and phone cameras. Questions exploded from every direction, a frenzy of excitement and disbelief :
“Easton! Are you filming a new movie here?”
“Who is she?”
“Is she your girlfriend?”