Page 162 of Merry Me
I smiled. “Always.”
An older gentleman with glasses and a clipboard stepped up to Easton just as we reached our seats and gave a little nod. “They’re ready for you, Mr. Maddox.”
Easton looked at me, kissed the back of my hand, and whispered, “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Not a chance,” I said, settling in and watching as he walked onto the small, spotlighted stage before the massive screen. He paused for a moment, adjusting the microphone, then gave the crowd a sexy, humble smile that made half the theater sigh.
“Hey, everyone. Thanks for coming. I’ll try to be quick—my wife promised me a reward if I don’t cry or overshare.”
Cue polite laughter, a few whistles, and my entire face catching fire.
He looked right at me.
And he softened.
“This film was special for a lot of reasons…the cast, the crew, the story we got to tell. But if I’m honest, what made it unforgettable was what was happening when the cameras weren’t rolling. Somewhere between the chaos and the quiet…I got her back. The girl who’s always been it for me. The one who saw all of me before any of this mattered. And somehow still wanted me after. That’s what made this one different. That’s what made it everything.”
I swallowed hard.
“She’s in the front row tonight,” he said, his voice softer now. “And every time a scene pushed me to the edge—when I wasn’t sure I could pull it off—I thought about her. Because if I could reach her, if I could makeherfeel something…then I knew it meant something.”
My eyes stung.
“I married the love of my life this year,” he finished. “And this film is for her.”
Thunderous applause erupted.
He gave a short, humble bow and returned to his seat, slipping into the plush velvet beside me like he hadn’t just shattered every woman in the room.
I leaned over and whispered, “That’s definitely gonna get you laid, Hollywood.”
He grinned and kissed the corner of my mouth. “Just wanted to remind you that you’re stuck with me.”
The lights dimmed.
The audience hushed in that sacred, anticipatory breath that lives just before the opening shot of a film. The screen flickeredto life, and within seconds, there he was. Gritty. Bleeding. Desperate.
Brilliant.
He wasn’t just good.
He wasmagnificent.
And I would’ve had a religious experience watching it, if his fingers weren’t inching up my thigh like he had a completely different film in mind. This had become a habit, apparently. Breaking PG-13 ratings in public.
And honestly? I wasn’t even mad about it.
His thumb brushed the inside of my leg, slow and lazy, as though he had all the time in the world to ruin me. The silk of my gown shifted as he found bare skin, and my breath hitched.
On screen, his character was delivering a raw monologue, voice wrecked and shaking, tears in his eyes as he fell to his knees in the pouring rain.
Beside me?
The real Easton was smirking like a devil.
I shifted slightly in my seat, the cool press of velvet brushing my thighs.
“You’re not even watching,” I whispered out the side of my mouth, barely daring to move.
