Chapter 23
EASTON
I woke before the sun, the sky outside still curled in that soft pre-dawn blue—the kind that made the world feel hushed and waiting.
She was still in my arms.
Natalie.
She was curled toward me, her cheek pressed to my chest, one hand tucked between us like she needed to feel my heartbeat to keep her own steady. Her lashes rested dark against her cheeks, still damp at the corners, and the tip of her nose was pink from crying.
She had cried for hours.
Quiet at first, then loud enough to crack me in half. The kind of crying that didn’t ask for comfort, but still begged for it. All I could do was hold her and hope she didn’t push me away. Hope I was enough.
And I didn’t mean enough to stop her tears—I knew better than that. I meant enough to be there. To stay. To matter when the pieces finally settled again.
I was scared her father had undone everything we’d rebuilt this week.
That the weight of it all—the memory of what he hadn’t been, the shame she still carried, the hurt she tried so hard to keep tucked under that sharp wit—was going to swallow us whole. That she’d decide this, us , was too much. Too messy. Too close to the pain.
And the thing was, I got it.
But I loved her.
God, I loved her.
It wasn’t clean or patient or poetic. It was unhinged. Raw. The kind of love that made my ribs hurt, like my heart was too big for the cage it was in.
She shifted in her sleep, her leg brushing mine under the covers, and I held my breath like she might vanish if I moved too fast.
I had stayed up most of the night just watching her. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe in a slightly creepy way—but mostly in that reverent, I - can’t - believe - she’s - here kind of way. The way you watch a sunrise and know it’s going to be the best part of your whole damn day.
She didn’t know.
How much I had wanted this. How much I had wanted her —not just the version she gave the world, but the one who had looked at me last night with tear-streaked cheeks and let herself fall apart in my arms.
I would’ve taken all the pieces. Every single one. Glued them back together with my bare hands if that was what it took.
And if she changed her mind now?
If she woke up and decided this week hadn’t meant what I thought it had—what I felt it had—I wouldn’t go back to California. Not really.
Sure, I’d pack my things. I’d get on a plane. But I’d follow her.
Quietly, at first. A respectable distance, obviously.
But I’d find ways to be near. To keep her laughing.
To scare off every guy who looked at her sideways.
To remind her every damn day that I was the guy who knew her middle name and her go-to drive- through order, and how she talked to paintings when she thought no one was watching.
I’d try to change her mind for the rest of my life if I had to.
Yeah, it sounded dramatic. Borderline pathetic, maybe. But it was true.
She stirred again, her nose nuzzling against my chest. Then, slowly, her lashes fluttered open.
And she looked up at me.
There was a beat—one breathless, suspended second—where her eyes were soft with sleep and the shadow of dreams. Then I saw it.
The shift. The flash of awareness behind her eyes as everything came back.
The lodge. The porch. Her father. The tears.
The way she’d fallen apart in my arms and let me hold every broken piece.
I braced.
Tensed, ready for her to pull away, to roll over, to say something sharp and self-protective like she had so many times before.
But she didn’t.
She didn’t move. Didn’t retreat.
Instead, her brow smoothed slightly. Her shoulders rose and fell with one long, heavy sigh.
“It’s the big day,” she whispered, her voice scratchy and soft, her breath warm against my skin.
I nodded, careful not to move too much. “Yeah. It is.”
Her eyes searched mine for a moment longer, like she was checking to see if I was still the same. Still safe. Still here.
Then without a word, she leaned up…and she kissed me.
Slow and quiet and full of things she hadn’t said yet.
I kissed her back, my hand cradling the back of her head like she was something fragile and holy and real, and I wasn’t about to let her slip through my fingers.
She pulled away with a small, reluctant sigh and reached toward the nightstand, grabbing her phone. The screen lit her face with a soft glow, and I saw the exact moment her expression crumpled.
“Ugh,” she groaned. “I have to start getting ready soon.”
I brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek, my hand lingering. “Cold reality setting in?”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly as something mischievous sparked behind them. “Maybe…”
Then she looked back at me, lips twitching. “Or maybe I just need a little…delay.”
My heart skipped. “A delay?”
“A very specific, very hands-on delay,” she said sweetly—too sweetly. And then her hand slid beneath the sheets, fingers trailing fire down my abs, slow and deliberate, until they curled around my cock, gripping me with a bold, possessive squeeze.
“Fuck,” I hissed, my muscles tensing as I throbbed against her palm.
“Natalie,” I cautioned, the word less a warning and more like a plea.
She leaned in, her lips brushing my chest with a slow, sinful graze that stole the air from my lungs.
Every muscle in my body coiled tight under her touch, my skin blazing where her mouth lingered, teasing me into a frenzy.
Her tongue flicked out, tracing the hard lines of my pecs, and I sucked in a sharp breath, my hips twitching involuntarily.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I rasped, my voice already rough, already hopeful.
She didn’t answer with words. Instead, her tongue carved a torturously slow path down my chest, her hot breath ghosting over my skin as she slid lower, her fingers loosening just enough to drag her nails lightly along my length.
The sensation sent a violent shudder through me, and my hands fisted the sheets, twisting them as I fought to keep from begging. Her lips followed her tongue, pressing open-mouthed kisses down my abs, each one wet and deliberate, her teeth grazing just enough to make me curse under my breath .
She paused just above my cock, her breath teasing the sensitive skin, so close I could feel the heat of her mouth but not the relief I was dying for.
“Fuck, Natalie,” I groaned, my head falling back against the pillow, eyes slamming shut as my body thrummed with need.
Her tongue darted out again, flicking against the taut skin just below my navel, and my cock twitched, aching for her to close the distance.
She hummed softly, the vibration of her voice against my skin sending another wave of heat through me, and I swore my brain was short-circuiting, one nerve at a time.
“Are you…” I managed, my voice a little strangled. “Trying to use my dick as a distraction?”
She looked up at me, a wicked smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Do you have a problem with that?”
I pretended to think it over, which was damn near impossible with her mouth so close to where I needed it, her fingers now tracing featherlight patterns along my inner thighs, keeping me on the edge of insanity.
“Hmm,” I said, forcing a thoughtful tone as her tongue made another slow, deliberate pass across my skin, this time dangerously close to the base of my cock. My hips bucked slightly, and she smirked, knowing exactly what she was doing to me. “Nope. Not a fucking one.”
Her grin deepened, pleased. “I didn’t think so.”
And then, finally, she lowered her mouth to the head of my dick, her lips grazing the tip with a slow, deliberate swirl of her tongue, teasing the sensitive slit before parting to take me in, and I stopped pretending I had any control left at all.
NATALIE
Snow fell like whispers.
It drifted outside the wide frosted windows of the reception hall, turning the whole world soft and white and still. It was the kind of snowfall that asked for silence. Reverence. Like the sky itself had paused to bear witness to my big sister’s day.
Inside, the place looked like something straight out of a winter wedding catalog.
Twinkle lights wrapped around the old timber beams, low-lit and tangled in pine boughs, casting everything in that soft, flattering glow people pretend isn’t on purpose.
Real candles lined the aisle—flickering, steady, like even they knew not to screw this up.
I stood at the far end of the aisle, bouquet in hand, my dress pressed and perfect. But my chest?
It felt tight. Too tight. Like my ribs had lost the memo on how to stretch. Like if I breathed too deep, everything I was holding together might finally…not.
He was here somewhere. My father.
And just the thought of that made something inside me curl with tension. A quiet kind of dread. Like I was still waiting to be picked, to be seen, to be enough.
I hated that he was here. I hated that his presence was pushing up against all my edges like he had a right to be part of this day.
Like he hadn’t missed every important thing leading up to it.
Like showing up now earned him a seat at the table and a warm welcome and a neatly folded name card that didn’t say Liar .
And yet, somewhere between the sobbing and the sleeping, sometime around the moment I stopped shaking in Easton’s arms and instead decided to suck his dick, I’d decided something.
He wasn’t going to ruin this.
Not for Paige. Not for me.
And I wasn’t going to use it as an excuse.
Not this time. Not to shut down. Not to run.
And especially not to put more distance between myself and the man who’d held me through the worst night I’d had in years.
The man who made me laugh when I was still shaking.
The man who watched me like I was something precious.
I wasn’t going to run from Easton.
I was so tired of that part of myself.