Chapter 24
NATALIE
T he kiss came, soft and sure, and everyone clapped.
My hands ached from holding the bouquets too tightly, but I was smiling…really smiling. The kind that started in my chest and spilled out without permission, light and full and unshakable.
Because in the middle of all the lace and candlelight and promises spoken out loud, something had shifted inside me.
And it wasn’t grief.
It wasn’t fear.
It was something softer.
Brighter.
Hope.
We funneled out into the courtyard for photos, the sound of champagne flutes clinking somewhere behind us.
The air was sharp with pine and laughter, a thousand details blurring together like a snow globe turned upside down.
My cheeks were still pink from smiling, my fingers aching slightly around the bouquet stems… but I didn’t care.
And then I felt him.
Easton brushed past me, shoulder to shoulder, warm and solid in a way that made something in me settle. His hand skimmed against mine—casual, easy—and then stayed. A soft press. A silent ask.
He didn’t look at me. Just left his hand there, open beside mine.
So I took it.
No hesitation. No drama. Just…yes.
Our fingers slid together like they knew the way, like they’d been waiting for this quiet confirmation.
“Always the prettiest girl in the room,” he murmured, his voice pitched just for me, warm and steady and utterly disarming.
I almost dropped the damn bouquet.
“You’re biased,” I whispered, my voice caught somewhere between breathless and beaming. “And that line is still corny.”
He leaned in, close enough that I felt his breath on my cheek, his grin lazy and laced with affection. “Sure, but it’s my brand of corny. And you love it because it comes with my devastating charm.”
“Debatable,” I shot back, but it came out softer than I meant.
Snowflakes clung to the ends of his hair, and the corners of his smile crinkled just enough to remind me why I used to stare at him for entire class periods without catching a single word the teacher said.
The courtyard had transformed into a winter painting. Twinkle lights tangled above us. The snow glowed gold. The photographer shouted directions like she was wrangling caffeinated goats, and MeMaw, bless her, flat-out refused to be wrangled.
“I’m not standing next to that shrub,” she announced, pointing at a perfectly innocent pine bush. “I have better things to do than blend in with landscaping.”
“Mom,” my mother hissed, red-faced.
“I’m seventy-eight and fabulous,” MeMaw said, flipping her faux fur stole over one shoulder with flair. “Put me center frame or cut me out entirely. ”
The photographer wisely went with center frame.
Somehow, I ended up next to Easton for the “fun” shot—sandwiched between MeMaw, who was still muttering something about hoping the photographer caught her good side, and Easton, who looked like the kind of man who didn’t know how to take a bad photo.
Or even a mediocre one. I was dangerously close to looking like a human thumb in comparison.
Then it happened.
The photographer squinted at Easton. Tilted her head. Froze.
“Oh my gosh,” she blurted, nearly dropping her camera. “You’re—you’re Easton Maddox .”
A beat of silence followed. Easton smiled, charming and just a little sheepish. “Guilty.”
Her eyes went saucer-wide. “Oh no. You need to be front and center.”
Easton gestured to the bridal party with a diplomatic shrug. “Pretty sure it’s not my big day.”
The photographer blinked, clearly not computing. “Right. Of course. But maybe…just to the left of the bride? Or, wait! What if we do a shot of you solo?”
“I don’t even go here,” he murmured under his breath to me, grinning like this was his personal hell and he loved every second of it.
The photographer finally got everyone positioned—Easton suspiciously near the middle—and clapped her hands. “Okay! Let’s get everyone in tighter!”
Before I could even blink, Easton’s arm slipped around my waist. Casual. Confident. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse.
And instead of tensing, instead of offering a joke to cover the soft chaos in my chest, I leaned in. On purpose.
His grip tightened. And everything in me just…settled. Like a breath finally exhaled.
Easton’s whole body froze.
His arm stilled against my back, his fingers paused ever so slightly on my waist…like he didn’t quite believe it. Like this ti ny, quiet moment, a lean, a touch, meant more than all the sex we’d been having this week.
When I risked a glance at him, his head was already tipped toward me, eyes bright with something almost boyish. Hopeful. Disbelieving. He looked like he might actually burst into a grin, but was trying really, really hard to play it cool.
Spoiler alert: he was failing.
“You good?” he murmured, his voice low enough to stay just between us.
I nodded, my smile tilting. “Yeah. I’m good.”
And the way he looked at me after that—like I’d just handed him the moon—nearly knocked the air out of me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement by the reception hall doors.
A figure stood half in the shadow—broad-shouldered, stiff-backed. Familiar in the way a phantom might be. The kind of familiar that made my stomach twist, not from grief this time, but from muscle memory. From years of flinching at shadows that never stayed.
Terry.
He wasn’t close enough to hear the laughter. Not close enough to be part of anything. But not far enough to pretend he wasn’t watching.
And he was watching.
Like a man who didn’t know how to step into a world he once chose to abandon. Like he’d missed every invitation until there weren’t any left—and now wasn’t sure if he should forge one himself.
Beside him stood Brittany. She hovered, looking uncertain, hands clasped in front of her like she wasn’t quite sure if she belonged here, either.
Paige’s voice rang out, clear and kind. “Hey! Come on in for a picture!”
I turned just in time to see her waving them both over, her veil fluttering gently behind her. She smiled. One of those practiced, diplomatic smiles I’d seen her use at baby showers and awkward brunches.
She was letting them in for the photos.
Because of course she was.
I watched as Paige positioned him near the edge of the group, not too close to Mom and Steve, but not too far from Levi. Brittany stepped in beside him, smoothing her dress. He smiled awkwardly, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands.
I braced.
Waited for the burn.
Waited for the twist in my gut, the old, familiar ache that said This is what you could’ve had . The one that whispered He chose her , he stayed for her , he made room in his life for everything except you .
But it didn’t come.
That sharp, piercing pain I’d carried like a second spine? It was gone. Or dulled. Or maybe—just maybe—it had finally unraveled into something I could hold without bleeding.
I still remembered. I always would.
But this time, it didn’t hurt the same.
Because I’d already broken. I’d already stitched myself back together again on the suite’s floor with Easton’s arms around me like a promise, his voice in my ear like a lullaby I didn’t know I needed.
I’d already faced the wreckage. And I’d chosen to rise from it.
So I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t storm across the courtyard to demand answers I knew I’d never get.
I just stood there—bouquet still in hand, Easton beside me, our fingers loosely intertwined—and I watched him pose with his other daughter. The one he hadn’t left behind.
And it was fine.
Not good. Not great. But fine.
Because this wasn’t his story anymore. It wasn’t about what he did or didn’t do. It was about me .
It was about the girl who used to sit by the window on her birthday waiting for a phone call that never came, who used to make up stories in her head to explain why he didn’t show. Who used to think if she were funnier or smarter or quieter or louder, he might’ve stayed.
That girl didn’t live here anymore.
I looked up at Easton.
He didn’t say anything…he didn’t have to. But the second his thumb brushed over the back of my hand, my breath evened out.
He was here. He would stay .
And I wasn’t going to run from that.
From him. From us. From our future.
I wasn’t going to let a man on the edge of a photo frame undo what we’d built in the quiet hours and breathless moments and kisses that meant something more than promises whispered too late.
Paige stood tall in the center of the group, radiant and glowing and brave in her own way. And I was proud of her. For making peace in the way she needed to.
But I didn’t need that anymore.
My peace had come in other forms. In the steady hum of Easton’s voice. In the soft weight of his palm. In the way he looked at me like I was something he’d never stop waiting for.
So I smiled, really smiled, and I looked forward. Toward the lens. Toward the light.
And let them take the picture without me looking back.