Chapter 25
NATALIE
L ater, after the speeches were done and Paige got frosting on her nose and Levi kissed it off without hesitation, the two of them obviously trying to secure a spot as the cutest couple around…the DJ dimmed the lights.
The mood in the room shifted.
Gone was the high-energy buzz of clinking glasses and cake-cutting chaos. In its place was something softer. More serene. The fireplace crackled, throwing shadows up the stone like they were dancing to their own secret beat. The music changed. Something smooth and swoony.
I made a quick exit to the edge of the room and sank into one of the velvet chairs lining the wall.
My heels—gorgeous, strappy little devils—had officially declared war on my feet.
They made me look hot…but they also were trying to kill me.
So, I tugged one off with a muffled groan, then the other, tossing both under the chair with zero remorse.
“Don’t move,” Easton murmured beside me, brushing a kiss to my temple before heading off toward the bar. “I’m getting us champagne.”
I smiled as I watched his gorgeous ass walk away, my feet already sighing in relief.
Then I pulled out my phone. Time to give my girls an update.
Me: If I get pulled into one more photo, I’m faking a sprained ankle and crawling out the back window.
Riley: Please do. Bonus points if you scream “MY TIME HERE IS DONE” on the way out.
Casey: Wait…you’re still taking pictures?? There’s cake. There’s a hot man. What are you doing?
Me: First of all, the cake is gone. MeMaw took the last slice and said, “I birthed the bride’s mother—I’ve earned this frosting.” Second of all…the man is currently fetching me more champagne like the good boy he is.
Riley: STOP! Did you decide on that satin dress? The one that makes men forget their middle names…
Me: Confirmed. It’s doing 80% of the flirting for me right now.
Casey: And the other 20% is what? Your soulful glances across the dance floor?
Me: Obviously. Also I may have just winked. WHO AM I?
Casey: YOU’RE THE MAIN CHARACTER, BABY.
Riley: Go get him. Grab his hand. Pull a full Jane Austen moment. We expect a dramatic slow dance and at least one moment of tension so thick you could cut it with MeMaw’s salad fork.
Me: Funny you mention that. MeMaw did threaten someone with a salad fork earlier. Her waiter tried to grab her soup before the bowl was empty.
Me: Also, Easton’s walking over right now.
Me: And…I think it’s time for me to say the four letter word.
Me: And I don’t mean “fuck”.
I hit send and continued watching Easton walk toward me. Like some kind of slow-motion heart attack in his suit and loosened tie, looking at me like I was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
Okay. Okay. Breathe.
I was going to say it.
Not You look nice or Thanks for not letting me emotionally combust this week or even something safe like I like you . No. I was going to say it . The big one. The one that had been sitting in my chest like a champagne cork waiting to pop.
I was going to say I love you .
My thumb hovered over the keyboard like it was waiting for a better idea, but I’d already sent the last message. I shoved my phone into the pocket of my dress—and yes, God bless this dress for having pockets—and felt it immediately start buzzing like a taser in my hip.
Casey and Riley were clearly losing their minds.
The vibrations came in frantic bursts—three in a row, then two more. I didn’t even need to check to know that the group chat was a full-blown emotional crime scene. Caps lock. Emojis. Possibly one or both of them threatening to haunt me if I didn’t deliver details within the hour.
I didn’t check. Not yet.
Because he was almost here.
I had to check my mouth for drool when he finally got to me because he was looking too good for words tonight. His tie was loosened just enough to be criminal. He looked—ridiculous. And devastating.
“For the girl everyone’s pretending not to stare at,” he said, handing me the champagne flute, his fingers brushing mine with just enough pressure to make my pulse stutter.
I took the glass and raised an eyebrow. “If this is another butter-me-up move, it’s working.”
He grinned, that crooked thing that never failed to turn my insides to soup. “You owe me a dance.”
“Oh, I do?” I said, lounging back in the chair like I was entirely unimpressed—even though my pulse was sprinting like it was training for a 5K.
He stepped forward, offering his hand. “Absolutely. For surviving your family. For not pulling a MeMaw and throwing a fork at your half sister. And”—his gaze swept down, then back up to my face—“for looking like that and expecting me to carry on like a functioning human.”
I snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re dodging,” he said, offering his hand. “Come on. Don’t make me beg.”
I sipped my champagne, letting it fizz against my lips before setting it down. “Fine. But only because you brought me bubbles…”
“Bubbles and charm. I’m an overachiever.”
He pulled me to my feet, and I wobbled slightly on bare toes before finding my balance. “Maybe I should’ve kept the shoes on just so I could step on you.”
He leaned in with a wicked glint in his eye. “Kinky.”
“Maddox,” I warned, trying not to laugh as he tugged me toward the dance floor. “You’re lucky I like you.”
He twirled me once, dramatically, then pulled me in close.
One hand rested on my lower back, the other curled through mine, steady and warm.
The song was soft—Sinatra, I think. Or maybe something that just wanted to sound like Sinatra.
Something swoony and slow and built for exactly this kind of moment.
The fireplace crackled behind us, shadows climbing the stone like they had somewhere to be. Snow kept falling outside the fogged windows, and inside, it felt like time had slowed just for us.
“You looked beautiful today,” he said, his voice low, his mouth so close to my temple it sent a shiver down my neck.
I huffed a laugh. “I was full of windblown hair and stress sweat.”
“Still beautiful,” he murmured. “Especially now.”
“Now I’ve got blisters and wine teeth,” I muttered, half into his chest.
He smiled. “And somehow still the most radiant person in the room.”
My heart did something embarrassing. Something fluttery and dramatic and definitely not sanctioned by my better judgment.
“Just so you know,” he murmured, his hand brushing a piece of hair behind my ear, like he couldn’t help it. “I love this.”
“This?” I echoed.
He nodded, eyes locked on mine. “You. This moment. Us . The way it feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
I let out a breathy laugh, then stepped closer, resting my head against his shoulder. “You’re being charming again.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a surprise.”
“It is,” I said, smiling into his suit jacket. “Every single time.”
“Natalie…” he whispered, an ache in his voice.
“Yes…” I whispered back.
It came out as a sigh. A full-body exhale. Like I’d been holding something in for too long, and he was the first person I trusted to see it.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His fingers found a piece of hair near my ear and tucked it gently behind it. “I can’t wait until our wedding.”
The only reason I didn’t trip over my own feet was because his arms were holding me up.
My heart kicked. My lungs stopped. My brain flatlined.
A weird laugh burst from my lips, the kind you let out when your chest is tight and your eyes sting and you’re not sure if you’re about to kiss someone or cry on their shirt.
And I might have done both. If he hadn’t stiffened.
If a voice behind me hadn’t broken through the music like a splinter in silk.
“Mind if I cut in?”
I turned—and there he was. Terry. Again. Hands folded, expression earnest, like he was auditioning for the role of Regret in a toothpaste commercial.
Of course it was him. The human equivalent of a record scratch. Two for two on ruining perfectly good moments with Easton. At this rate, I was going to need hazard pay.
“Remember how we used to dance in the living room?” he said, his voice low. “Your feet on top of mine. You were what—five?” He gave a faint smile. “I could try to pull it off again.”
My breath caught. Not because of the offer—but because I did remember.
The worn edges of the carpet under my toes. The scratchy voice of some old crooner on the radio, tinny and soft. The way my tiny fingers had curled around his, trusting. Certain. My giggle bouncing off the walls like it had somewhere important to be.
I remembered all of it. Vivid, like it had happened just last week instead of a lifetime ago.
But I didn’t think he would.
“I’d rather not,” I said. My voice came out steady, calm. Like I hadn’t just been sucker punched by a memory I didn’t know still had claws.
But inside?
Everything trembled.
The music swelled between us. My fingers still tingled where Easton had touched them.
My father’s face didn’t shift much. Barely a flicker. Just a tightening at the jaw, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth like the smile he’d worn had never quite belonged there. He nodded .
A small, quiet nod.
“I understand,” he said.
I hated how calm he sounded. Hated how polite he was. Like he’d turned into a ghost with manners. A man who had spent years disappearing only to reappear with soft words and softened edges and nothing close to an apology.
I could feel Easton beside me, his presence warm and grounding and still watching me with something that looked a lot like permission. Like I didn’t owe anyone anything. Like I could say no and walk away and still be whole.
But something—some stupid thing—inside me cracked.
Something small. Some old, splintered part of me that still remembered the sound of his shoes on the kitchen floor. The way he used to whistle under his breath when he thought no one was listening. The way he’d once let me stand on his feet like it meant something.
Maybe it was the hope I thought I saw in his eyes. The fragile, breakable hope of a man who didn’t deserve it but carried it anyway.
Maybe it was just the weight of too many years of not saying anything at all.
Or maybe it was that this moment, awkward and aching as it was, felt like something I’d been holding underwater for years—and suddenly, I was too tired to keep it from surfacing.
“Just one,” I said, my voice quiet, brittle as ice and just as likely to crack. “One dance.”
My father nodded. He didn’t push. Didn’t speak.
Just took the single step forward that closed the space between us and reached for my hand like he thought I might vanish if he touched me too hard.
Like I was still small, still five years old with socked feet on top of his dress shoes, not this grown woman in satin and stubbornness who’d learned to stop waiting.
Easton’s touch slipped away.
His fingertips grazed mine for half a second, and then he was gone—his warmth retreating like the tide. But I could feel his gaze, hot and steady on my back. I didn’t have to turn around to know what it held.
Not judgment. Not pressure.
Just…presence. Unflinching. Safe.
I stepped into the slow rhythm of the music like I was walking across thin ice—careful, breath tight, every movement deliberate.
My father’s palm hovered at my waist, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch his daughter.
Like he expected me to pull away. And honestly? Part of me wanted to.
We moved awkwardly at first, like strangers in a scene we’d never rehearsed.
He smelled like aftershave and something faintly medicinal. Different from how I remembered.
“You grew up,” he said finally. His voice was soft. Not shaky. Just worn around the edges, like an old shirt that had seen too many wash cycles.
“People do that.” My reply was flat. Smooth. The kind of response that sounded casual but hit with the precision of a scalpel.
His throat worked, and he tried again. “You look like your mom.”
I stared over his shoulder. Focused on a flickering candle in the far corner of the room. “She looked tired a lot.”
That silenced him.
The music played on, too romantic for the moment, some instrumental version of a song that probably played at weddings all the time. I heard the steady swell of strings, the way they held the silence between us like it mattered.
His hand didn’t grip mine fully. His fingers rested there, unsure. They didn’t know how to hold me anymore, and I didn’t offer a map.
He kept trying to look at me.
And I kept looking past him.
It was a whole thing.
He cleared his throat. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. ”
“Good.” My voice stayed steady this time, firm like a fence post in hard earth. “Because I’m not ready.”
He nodded again, like he’d been expecting that. Maybe he had.
My jaw clenched until my molars ached. My hand, still loosely held in his, felt foreign. Like it belonged to someone else. Someone younger. Someone who used to believe.
And still?—
I let the song finish.
Not because I forgave him.
Not because I needed the closure he was trying to script.
But because this was my sister’s wedding. Because people were watching. Because my dress was beautiful, the lights were soft, the music was sweet and aching, and I was tired of being the girl who always bolted.
So I stayed.
One slow, painful dance.
That’s all it was.
A minute and a half of shared space. Of ghosts. Of silence that stretched between us like a rope worn thin.
I didn’t say another word. Didn’t give him anything else. No absolution. No promises. No second chances tucked into a whispered goodbye.
When the music swelled toward its final note, I gently stepped back.
His hand dropped from my waist like it knew better than to try to linger.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
I didn’t respond.
I simply turned and walked away, back toward the man whose arms had never let me fall.