Merry Me: A Holiday Romance, page 2
Casey choked and sputtered for a second before she remembered she knew how to chew, and we watched as Tennessee finally got a first down.
The crowd surged, and I nearly forgave Parker for being tragically mediocre this quarter.
“You hate Christmas?” Casey finally said, sounding genuinely horrified, like I’d just confessed to hating puppies or stealing from the Girl Scouts.
“Hold that thought for one second, Case,” I said before cupping my hands around my mouth so my voice could be louder. “Hey, Thatcher, did you forget how to catch, or are you just morally opposed to touchdowns?”
“That was a hard catch. He had two defenders on him!” Riley said indignantly.
“No excuses. Play like a champion,” I muttered.
“Did you get that from Wedding Crashers?” Riley drawled.
“They got it from me,” I mumbled around another handful of gummies.
“So,” Casey said, turning back to me as Tennessee lined up again, because evidently my angel baby of a best friend could not take a hint. “Are you going to explain the Christmas hatred? I feel like that’s a betrayal of everything I know about you. You wear sparkly boots. You own an Advent calendar with perfume samples. You basically are Christmas in human form.”
“Because I’m blonde, enjoy Starbucks every day, and shop at Target like it’s a full-time job? That’s so judgmental, Case. I happen to be very against the glitter of commercialism, actually.”
She snorted. “You literally love commercialism.”
“It’s still profiling,” I muttered back.
Her expression softened, and I could see the gears gently turning in her head, already planning how to fix me with some kind of cinnamon-scented-candle holiday intervention.
I had to redirect. Fast. Casey was a fixer, a nurturer, the kind of person who probably couldn’t hear someone say they hated Christmas without deciding it was her personal mission to make them love it.
“So,” I said loudly, pointing at the field. “Think Parker’s gonna pull off this Hail Mary, or are we all gonna die cold and disappointed?”
She blinked, startled out of her planning of Operation Holiday Healing, and turned back to the game.
“He’s got this,” she said firmly, her voice full of that unshakable faith she had in him.
I leaned back in my seat, watching her watch him. For all her blushing and shyness, Casey had a steel core when it came to Parker. It was nice seeing her like this. Happy. Very different from the quiet, sad girl who I’d roomed with for part of freshman year.
But me? I was going to spend Christmas exactly how I wanted: alone, on campus, with no mistletoe, no eggnog, and no made-for-TV miracles involving hot cocoa and emotional breakthroughs. No pretending the holidays were merry and bright when, for me, they never really had been.
Because Christmas time was when my biological father had left. Second grade. A tree still standing in the living room, lights blinking like they hadn’t gotten the memo. He walked out of the house, and he never came back.
I stopped believing in Santa and fathers on the same day.
So if anyone needed a Hail Mary, it was me. But it wasn’t coming from a quarterback.
I’d ruined my chance at that kind of happiness a long time ago.
CHAPTER 2
NATALIE
The phone buzzed in my hand, vibrating and scaring the living shit out of me since I’d obviously been in a half-asleep, half-scrolling daze because it was eight-fucking-o-clock in the morning.
My sister was calling—a rare thing as of late—which meant that whatever she had to say was going to be important or something I wasn’t ready to hear.
“Hey, Paige. What’s up?” I asked, doing my best to sound like I’d been awake for hours because my sister was one of those people who woke up at the crack of dawn to work out…like a psychopath.
“Nat!” she screeched, and I winced. “I have the best news!”
“You won the lottery?”
She paused. “No.”
“You got someone to pay for that boob job you’ve been wanting?”
“Also no,” she said, beginning to sound annoyed.
“Well, then I can’t think of anything you would have to tell me that would be exciting.”
“I’m getting married!” Her shrieking was so loud that it took me a second to comprehend what she was saying.
Then it clicked.
“What do you mean you’re getting married?” I asked, faintly aware of the fact that my voice was coming out equally screechy.
But in my defense, I hadn’t even known that my sister was dating anyone seriously, so forgive me if my voice had lost its usual, very pleasant tenor.
“Levi asked me to marry him, and I said yes!” she squealed.
“Well, yes. That’s generally how these things work,” I said, still sounding frantic. “But who the fuck is Levi?”
“You know who Levi is…He’s Levi.”
I blinked at the phone, trying to recall who Levi could possibly be.
Until it hit me.
Levi Martin.
My high school boyfriend’s best friend.
My insides clenched like I’d just swallowed an entire lemon.
“You’re marrying Levi?” I blurted, a little too loud and a little too horrified-sounding.
“Yes!” Her voice sparkled through the phone like she was announcing she’d just won a cruise. “Isn’t that crazy?”
“Crazy is one word,” I said, clutching my phone like it might stabilize my nervous system. “We’re talking about Levi ‘lit a microwave on fire trying to make a grilled cheese’ Martin, right?”
She giggled like I was exaggerating. I wasn’t.
“That was forever ago. He’s matured. He does CrossFit now.”
“Oh, well. Obviously that’s the same as therapy,” I deadpanned. “Tell me you didn’t say yes to a man who once thought wearing a backwards snapback made him deep.”
“He’s not like that anymore! He’s thoughtful and focused now.”
“Thoughtful? Paige, he once ate seventeen mozzarella sticks at our house and then threw up in our dryer.”
“That was also forever ago,” she said, unfazed. “People grow up. You of all people should know that.”
I paused, trying to reconcile the image of Levi Martin doing deadlifts and saying things like, emotional accountability.
I went on Facebook and started frantically scrolling through Levi’s pictures, past the few of him and my sister, desperately searching to see whether he had any recent pictures with him. My heart was thumping like I’d just been caught cheating on a pop quiz by a nun with a ruler.
“So, when’s the big day?” I asked belatedly, feeling marginally better after I’d scrolled back at least a year and found zero evidence of Easton and Levi still being in each other’s lives. No recent selfies. No bro-hugs. No golf outings or barbecue reunions. Easton was firmly ensconced in Hollywood and, more importantly, firmly away from me.
Ensconced. That was a big word. I gave myself a mental high five. It was good to reward yourself for literacy.
“Christmas Eve!”
“Christmas Eve?” My voice jumped an octave. “As in this Christmas Eve? Paige, that’s two fucking weeks away!”
“I know; isn’t it romantic? Snow, Christmas lights, everyone together for the holidays…”
Her words blurred into a festive, tinsel-covered buzz saw as my brain conjured the nightmare that awaited me.
“You mean everyone forced together for the holidays,” I grumbled.
I could already picture it: an entire weekend filled with Christmas activities, endless happy couples, and the looming possibility of running into him.
Easton’s face popped into my head uninvited—his dark hair, those piercing green eyes, the lopsided grin that used to make me feel like the center of the universe. My stomach twisted again.
From the pictures of him I’d seen online…he’d only gotten hotter. Leaner. Sharper. Like someone had taken the gorgeous boy I’d fallen in love with and added about seven layers of smolder.
“Natalie?” Paige’s voice yanked me out of my spiral. “You still there?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I scrambled for an excuse. “Look, I’m really happy for you, sis, but it’s so last minute. Finals, work, you know how it is—”
“You’re coming,” she interrupted firmly. Her voice was tinged with amusement, like she’d been waiting for me to try that exact excuse.
“Paige, really, I—”
“I know what this is about,” she said pointedly.
“It’s not about anything—”
“We don’t even know if he’s coming.”
“Who’s he?” I asked, wincing because that weird squeak was back.
There was silence on the other end of the line. A weighted one. Like Paige was holding back an eye roll.
“Natalie,” Paige said softly, “it’s hilarious that you would even pretend you’re not coming. You know you’re my maid of honor.”
I got all weepy at that, which was rude of her. I didn’t ask to have emotions.
“I am?” I asked, suddenly sounding like a soft marshmallow of a human.
“Nat,” she groaned, exasperated. “Like you didn’t know that.”
I exhaled sharply, trying to get myself under control.
“Of course, I knew that,” I finally said, sounding much more like my usual, fabulous self. “Who else in your life could compare? But if you make me wear one of those hideous Christmas sweaters at any point during the wedding festivities, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Throw away the llama sweater I’m holding. Got it.” She snorted.
A guy’s voice called her name. Levi, I assumed. “Kay, sis. I’ve got to go! Love you. See you soon.”
“Let me know if—” Paige hung up before I could finish my sentence. Also rude.
I flopped back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. I started mentally calculating the odds of Easton being there. He’d been Levi’s closest friend in high school…but that had been a long time ago. Things change. People grow apart. Especially when one of those people becomes a literal movie star and the other—Levi, obviously—still lives in a town where the biggest news last week was the church potluck catching fire.
But what if he was there?
That question dug into me like a splinter.
Who gives a fuck, though? I told myself with a little more venom than necessary. I was the one who had ended things. I’m sure he had long forgotten about me. He’d probably see me and shake my hand like we were old business associates. Maybe even thank me for not dragging it out.
Cool. Great. Fabulous.
For the rest of the day, I pretended to care about finals, pretended to pay attention to my group project meeting, pretended I wasn’t internally screaming.
But all I could think was:
What if he’s there?
CHAPTER 3
EASTON
The bright lights were harsh against my face, and the sticky layer of makeup didn’t help. I was supposed to be gazing into my costar’s eyes like she was the love of my life, but my jaw was clenched so tight I could feel a headache forming.
“Take twenty-eight, people. And action,” Paul, our director, called out.
Take twenty-eight. That meant we’d done this exact same scene twenty-seven other times. Twenty-seven other lip-locks. Twenty-seven other failed attempts to capture something that wasn’t there and never would be.
I leaned forward, brushing a hand against her cheek like I’d practiced in the mirror a hundred times, and our lips met.
Don’t flinch, I coached myself as her overeager mouth moved against mine like she was trying to devour me in front of the whole movie set. Her lip gloss tasted like synthetic cherries, and the whole thing felt about as romantic as kissing a corpse.
Not that I knew firsthand what that felt like.
But this had to be close. Somewhere between embalmed and disinterested.
I forced myself to hold the moment, camera-ready and stone-faced, but all I could think about was the last time a kiss had meant something.
Really meant something.
Natalie.
Her name slammed into me like a sucker punch.
She’d tasted like mint and mischief, like strawberry lip balm and too many memories. Kissing her had never been rehearsed. It had never needed staging. It was messy and real and electric in a way that couldn’t be manufactured under studio lights. With her, I never had to fake it. Never had to pretend I was in love.
Because I was.
“Cut!” Paul bellowed, his voice ricocheting across the set. “What the fuck is going on? Easton, you’re supposed to look like you want to kiss her, not like you’re being forced to at gunpoint. What the fuck is going on with your face?”
The crew chuckled, but I didn’t crack a smile as I pulled back from Vanessa, who was blinking up at me like she’d actually felt something. Which was awkward. She was a rising star whose name was plastered all over the tabloids…and she happened to be annoying as fuck.
“I’m acting,” I said dryly.
“Well, stop,” Paul snapped. “Try pretending you like her, not that she’s your dental hygienist. Reset for take twenty-nine.”
I stepped back, swallowing down a sigh as the makeup artist swarmed me again with powder and blotting papers, dabbing the sweat from my temples like it was a crime scene.
This was the part that I hated most about this job—and what I was the worst at.
Paul rubbed his temples. “We need this scene done today, Easton. It’s one little scene. And then you’re done. And we’re all off for Christmas. Please, get your fucking head in the game.”
I was pretty sure that please came out more like a threat, thank you very little…but I couldn’t really blame him. This had to be torturous to watch.
“You know what, let’s take a break for fucking lunch,” Paul announced, muttering to himself as he walked away.
Vanessa gave me a sly little smile and leaned in close. “Maybe we could practice,” she murmured, low enough that the boom mic wouldn’t pick it up, “in my trailer.” Her voice was dripping with suggestion as her hand brushed against my chest.
I forced a polite smile, the kind that said not in a million years. “No thanks,” I said quickly as I stepped out of her reach.
Fuck, that came out aggressive. That was going to make the rest of the day a real treat.
Her face froze in a mixture of irritation and disbelief. I imagined she wasn’t rejected very often, but there had to be a first time for everything, right? Judging by the way she was suddenly snarling and baring her teeth like a rabid wolf—she didn’t agree with that assessment.
“I’ve gotta make a few calls,” I said soothingly, trying to sound charming since I did have to get through at least the rest of the day with her.
“Sure,” she snipped, spinning on her heels and walking off set to her trailer, her hair whipping behind her like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial directed by Satan.
I rubbed a hand down my face and let out a slow exhale…before immediately realizing I now had a sticky layer of makeup smeared on my palm. Great. Now I look like a sweaty raccoon. Could this film be over already?
Reaching my trailer, I shut the door behind me and flopped back onto the small couch.
Kissing scenes. Sex scenes. Anything romantic was the bane of my existence. The only way I’d managed to get through any of them was by thinking about her.
Which was the exact opposite of what I wanted to be doing.
Natalie.
Natalie Fucking Bennett. The girl who’d been living rent-free in my head since the moment I’d seen her face in middle school.
Her honey-blonde hair. The soft way her lips used to part against mine. The little gasp she made when I tucked a hand under her chin and kissed her like the world had gone quiet around us.
Her laugh that had always felt like summer.
What the fuck did that even mean? Was I writing poetry now?
I groaned and leaned back, letting my head thump against the wall. Almost two fucking years without a word, and she was still the first thing I thought of when someone said, love scene or love, or anything remotely resembling soulmates and the person you were obsessed with.
Fortunately, that silence—our exile—felt like it was finally coming to an end. The distance. The wondering. The ache of not knowing if she ever thought of me, too. I was finally going to have the chance to look her in the eye and say all the things I hadn’t been allowed to say.
Maybe then, I could finally get my sanity back.
Grabbing my phone off the tiny foldout table, I unlocked it to check for the text I was waiting for. I’d been sneaking glances at my phone all day like a maniac. And there it was.
Holy fuck.
Right at the top. A text from Levi, my best friend from high school, whose wedding I was supposed to be in. The wedding that, if all went to plan, was going to fix my life and change everything.
Levi: She’s in.
A slow grin spread across my face, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, it felt real. The first real smile I’d worn since…well, since she’d walked away.
She’s in.
This day had just turned around.
Because I was going to the wedding.
Because Natalie was going to be there.
Because, for the first time in almost two years, I had a shot at getting back what I’d lost.
This time, I wasn’t giving her space to run. I wasn’t letting her talk herself out of us, out of what we had.
This time, I was going all in.
I’d already lost her once. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.
Not when I’d waited this long. Not when every part of me still wanted her.
This time…I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
