Page 157 of Merry Me
And then…he was standing right in front of me.
Up close, he smelled like stage makeup, sweat, and the cologne he always wore that made me lose IQ points. Not the worst combo, actually.
“You’re a menace. I’m just saying,” Easton said.
“You’re just saying that because I’m better at making sparkly proposal posters.”
He eyed the sign. “It’s objectively horrifying.”
“I went through three glue sticks.”
“Of course you did.”
We stared at each other.
“Hi,” I whispered. My voice cracked like a middle school trumpet.
His smile softened. “Hey, Nat.”
He said it like it was only ever going to be me. Like he’d walked off a movie set and into his actual happy ending.
Glancing at my sign, he raised an eyebrow. “You stole my thunder, Trouble.”
“I…What?”
“I was going to propose to you.” He crossed his arms. “I had a whole plan. A ring. Lights. A scripted monologue. And you have the audacity to show up with a glitter poster.”
“Oh my gosh," I whispered.
“You ruined my dramatic return,” he said, mock stern. “You realize that, right?”
A few fans were filming now. I could feel a camera lens trained on my right cheekbone, but I didn’t care.
Plus, that happened to be my good side, so that was helpful.
“You were going to propose?” I asked, my heartbeat going at full throttle.
“You don’t seem to have been listening very well to what I’ve been saying over the last few weeks, baby.”
I stuck out my tongue. “Well, listening is pretty difficult sometimes, Maddox.”
“I even practiced my speech on the flight out here,” he said, his voice getting softer.
“Oh my gosh,” someone whispered from the crowd. “It’s likeNotting Hillbut hotter.”
“Okay,” I managed, breathless, as I lowered the sign and tried to find my voice. “Tell me about this supposed proposal.”
He stepped closer, his sweatshirt stretching just enough over his chest to make my brain malfunction, his hair damp and messy, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times. Every inch of him radiated unfairly hot.
And then hesmirked. Like he knew he was about to ruin me.
“Well,” he said, his voice full of smug affection. “There was going to be a snow machine. Possibly a string quartet. Definitely champagne. The ring was going to be inside one of those ridiculous oversized champagne poppers, and when it exploded, confetti would rain down, and the ring would land perfectly in your glass. Very subtle.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You were wearing the sweater.”
He nodded solemnly. “The one that makes me look like a cable-knit Viking.”
I lifted a brow. “That sweater should come with a warning label. It’s unfair to the general population.”
