Merry Me: A Holiday Romance, page 26
Someone—my mom, maybe—said my name, soft and gentle, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I barely felt Easton’s hand graze mine, a tether I shook off like it burned.
The lodge doors flew open with a burst of cold air, swallowing me whole.
Outside, snow crunched under my heels as I stumbled across the wraparound porch. The cold slapped my cheeks, fresh and unforgiving, like it had been waiting for me to lose it. I gripped the wooden railing with frozen fingers and gasped. One breath. Then another. And another. Each one shallow and useless.
My chest felt too tight. My dress too thin. My thoughts too loud.
I stared out at the trees, their branches heavy with snow, a postcard scene that didn’t belong to me. It belonged to other people. To fairy tales. To people who didn’t feel like a cracked ornament being taped back together for the hundredth time.
Fuck.
I had been seconds from going back to the suite with Easton. From letting him take me somewhere dark and quiet, where the world could fall away. From giving in to the fire between us and letting it mean exactly what it already did. That maybe I was okay. That maybe I was finally free from the part of me that still flinched from the fear of being left behind.
And then he showed up.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut as if I could hold it all in. But the ache was sharp, pressing against my ribs like it had claws.
I wanted to scream. To rip the world apart like he always did.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t ruin this for Paige. I couldn’t just leave and miss her day.
So, I just stood there.
Breathing. Trembling. Hating the way old wounds didn’t stay gone. Hating that the second I saw him, something in me shrank.
I hated that I could still feel Easton’s hand on my thigh and all the ways I had felt wanted. Desired. Chosen.
And I hated that I didn’t feel that way anymore.
Not right now. Not with the past staring at me like a bad punch line.
Behind me, the door creaked, and warm light spilled out onto the snow. Footsteps landed softly on the wooden planks…but I still didn’t turn around. I stared straight ahead, locking my spine in place.
“Natalie.”
Just one word. Just my name.
And still, it scraped down my spine like sandpaper.
I let the silence stretch between us. I wanted to see if it would make him squirm. I wanted him to feel just a fraction of what I’d carried.
The footsteps stopped beside me, a few feet away. Not close enough to be familiar. Not far enough to feel safe.
After another breath, cold and sharp, I asked, without looking at him, “Why did you come?”
The words hung there, frozen between us.
He exhaled through his nose. “I wasn’t going to. I—” His voice caught. “I didn’t want to make anything worse.”
A bitter laugh slipped from me before I could stop it. “Well. Nailed it.”
He flinched. I could hear it. The sound of someone realizing too late that they walked into the wrong conversation without a map.
“I thought maybe,” he said slowly, like the words hurt his mouth. “Just maybe…if I showed up, it would mean something.”
I turned then.
And maybe I shouldn’t have—maybe I should’ve stayed with the trees and the snow and the version of me that didn’t have to look him in the face—but I did.
“Mean something to who?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “To me? To Paige?”
He smiled weakly as if he weren’t actually sure.
I crossed my arms, not because I was cold, but because it was the only thing keeping my hands from shaking. “Why now?”
His mouth opened. Closed. His jaw clenched.
And then he said something I wasn’t ready for.
“Because I’m sick.”
My spine went rigid. My lungs squeezed tight, like his words had knocked the air out of them.
I blinked at him, studying him closer now, seeing how he kind of looked like a ghost trying to remember how to be solid again. Or maybe that was just my hatred, twisting the picture.
“Sick?” I repeated, barely recognizing my own voice.
He nodded, his jaw tight. “Leukemia. They caught it late. I didn’t…I didn’t know how to tell you.”
My stomach twisted. Not out of sympathy. Not yet. It was too tangled for that. I didn’t know if I felt sad or angry or nothing at all. Maybe all three.
“So, you decided to crash Paige’s wedding?” I asked sharply. “Thought you’d just drop the bomb and then blend in with the hors d’oeuvres?”
He winced. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”
“But it is,” I said, cutting him off. “It always is with you.”
He nodded slowly, lips pressed together like he couldn’t argue. Because he couldn’t. Because he knew.
I looked away, out into the trees, the world too quiet. The cold burned in my lungs.
“I didn’t come to cause trouble,” he said softly. “I swear. I just wanted to see you. Once. Before…”
He didn’t finish.
Didn’t have to.
And I hated the part of me that still cracked down the middle at the thought of him dying. Of this being real. Of it being too late, again.
Because no matter how many years had passed, no matter how many times I’d told myself I didn’t care—there was still a small, stubborn ember inside me that had wanted something. An apology. An explanation. A clean ending, maybe. Closure.
But this? Him showing up now, dragging all those old fractures back into the light like we were unfinished business?
No.
I straightened, spine stiffening like I was snapping a shield back into place.
“Well,” I said, lifting my chin, “you’re here. But let’s get something straight.”
He blinked.
“You don’t get to ruin this.”
His brows drew together. “I didn’t come to ruin anything. I tried to call you this week, to talk about everything…”
Ah, so I’d been right. That unknown number had been him. I didn’t know how he’d even gotten my number in the first place, but I was glad as fuck that I hadn’t picked up. Hadn’t had his voice ruin the whole week instead of just now.
I stepped closer, my voice low, steady. “Good. Because you won’t. Paige gets her day. She gets the magic, and the cake, and the teary vows, and every single ounce of joy without you dragging your history into it.”
I paused, letting the weight of my words settle. “And you’re not going to tell her you’re sick. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until she’s back from her honeymoon and all her wedding glow has faded. She doesn’t need that in her head when she walks down the aisle. You don’t get to ruin this for her.”
He didn’t speak. Just nodded, something wounded flickering behind his eyes.
“As for me…” I shook my head. “We’re not doing this. Not now. Maybe not ever.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “But I hoped maybe—”
“No.” I cut him off before the hope in his voice could do any real damage. “You don’t get to hope. Not after years of silence. Not after all the missed birthdays and holidays and graduations and broken promises. You don’t get to hope you still fit somewhere in this story just because you showed up with a tie and a guilty conscience.”
His eyes glistened. I didn’t care.
“I’m not that little girl who used to wait on the porch in her best dress,” I said. “And I’m not going to pretend you get a second chance just because you finally remembered we exist.”
A long silence stretched between us. Thick. Cold. Heavy with everything we weren’t saying.
“I just wanted to see you,” he murmured. “Even if you didn’t want to see me.”
I took a long breath, let it sear through my lungs.
“Well,” I said, my voice firm as I turned toward the door, “now you have.”
And I stepped back inside.
The warmth of the lodge wrapped around me, too sudden, too bright. Conversation swirled in half-heard fragments, the flicker of candles catching on sequins and champagne flutes. My heels scuffed softly against the floorboards, but I couldn’t quite hear them over the rush in my ears.
Then Easton was there.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask what happened or press his luck with some charming joke to break the tension. He just wrapped his arms around me, solid and strong, and pulled me into his chest like he’d been waiting to do it all night.
And I let him. Completely.
I sank into him, my hands curling into the fabric of his suit coat. Let his steady heartbeat anchor mine. Let myself be held, because it had been a long time since anyone had seen the cracks and wrapped themselves around me anyway.
I felt the weight of his chin rest lightly on top of my head. His hands slid up and down my back in slow, grounding strokes.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
I closed my eyes. Soaked it in. Let it hold me up, just for a minute.
But then…I looked past his shoulder.
The room had changed. The golden hum from earlier, the soft laughter, the easy clink of glasses, the sparkle Paige had worked so damn hard for…it was gone. Swallowed whole. Replaced by this awful, stretched-out silence that tasted like dread and watched like a car crash. The kind that made people speak softer, like a higher volume might make it worse.
Like everyone in the room had just remembered something ugly.
And the cause of it—of course—was him.
My fists curled before I even realized it, the rage rising fast and hot.
And then I saw her.
Near the fireplace, a girl in a soft green dress stood talking to Paige. She looked polished, quiet, pretty in that catalog-perfect way—glossy brown hair tucked neatly behind her ears, gold necklace resting at her collarbone, her posture just a little too graceful to be accidental. Her smile was small, controlled, like it had been trained.
I leaned toward Easton, barely moving my lips. “Do you know who that is?”
He didn’t look away. “That’s Brittany,” he said quietly. “Your half sister.”
The name hit like a crack across glass.
Brittany.
I blinked. Stared harder, like I hadn’t really seen her until just now.
Because that was her. The daughter he’d stayed for.
The one he chose.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Of course she wasn’t. She held her cranberry spritzer like someone who’d never spilled anything in her life. She laughed, soft and practiced, at something Paige said. Not cruel. Not warm. Just…comfortable. At ease.
And Paige—
Fuck.
She looked like she was barely breathing. She stood stiffly, her shoulders hunched the way they used to when she heard Mom crying after he’d left, and she thought if she made herself small enough, she might disappear. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her body tilted just slightly away from the girl. Her eyes flicked around the room like she was searching for an exit…or maybe for me.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Couldn’t catch a single word. But I didn’t need to.
Just the sight of it—of Brittany, smiling like she belonged in this moment Paige had been dreaming about—made something cold and hollow rip through my chest.
Paige didn’t look like a bride-to-be anymore. She looked like a kid again. Cornered.
And I hated that I couldn’t fix it. I hated that we’d been twisted into this shape, that our emotional wreckage ran so deep Paige thought inviting him might fill something in.
I glanced toward my mom, hoping, stupidly, for some sign that this wasn’t unraveling as fast as it felt like it was.
Her lips were pursed into a tight line, eyes trained on Paige and Brittany like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to cry or throw something. Steve’s hand was wrapped around hers, firm and grounding, his thumb brushing slow circles against her knuckles like he was the only thing keeping her upright.
I knew that look. I’d worn it myself.
The look of a woman holding it together—for everyone but herself.
My grip on Easton’s hand tightened, and I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until I felt it lodge hard in my throat.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
He turned toward me instantly, brow furrowing. “Say the word,” he murmured.
And I did.
“Can we go?”
He didn’t blink. Just squeezed my hand and started walking—pulling me gently, purposefully, out of the room and into the night.
CHAPTER 23
EASTON
Iwoke 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.
