Page 41 of Merry Me
“I hate you,” I whispered, which came out more breathy and less full of loathing than I meant. Which frankly meant that the alcohol had kicked in…and I might be in trouble.
“Looking sexy when you’re angry is not helping your case,” he murmured back, just loud enough for me to hear.
I gave him a glare that would’ve killed a lesser man. Unluckily for me, Easton Maddox was not a lesser man.
Easton handed me the second mic, making sure that his fingers dragged against mine as he did so. Completely unnecessary if you asked me. I tried to move to the other side of the stage because distance seemed really important right now, but he grabbed my hand and kept me next to him.
I didn’t understand how it could still feel like this, like his hand was my home, even after all this time. Maybe I had been cursed that day when he’d walked into my middle school class, and I was going to feel like something was missing for the rest of my life.
Natalie,pull yourself together.Now’s not the time to go all morose.
The crowd hooted. The lights twinkled. Somewhere in the back, MeMaw whooped and yelled, “Take it off!” which I was praying wasn’t directed at either of us.
The music started, jingle bells with a jazzy undercurrent, and my stomach dropped.
Oh no. No,no,no,no.
“Santa Baby.”
He’d picked “Santa Baby”?
“I swear to all that is holy, Easton,” I muttered under my breath. “I will deck your halls.”
“Looking forward to it,” he murmured back, his voice dangerously close to my ear.
The intro came and went, and like a true professional, or maybe just a woman on her fifth…or sixth drink, I lifted the mic.
“Santa baby…”
My voice was breathy, low, borderline sultry—and yes, I regrettedeverything.
I could feel Easton watching me, no doubt a slow grin spreading across his face. He hadn’t even sung a note yet, but the smug bastard was already winning.
I continued the song, doing my best not to shrivel into dust under the weight of a hundred pairs of staring eyes—and his. I kept my gaze on the ceiling, knowing one look at him would melt me straight into the floor.
I was halfway through the second verse, cheeks on fire, when his voice joined in—smooth and deep and so unfairly confident it made my knees wobble.
I actually stumbled.Stumbled. I forgot the lyrics. I forgot my name.
Easton. Was. Singing.
And he sounded like some kind of Christmas angel who’d had too much whiskey and sin. I wasn’t sure how all Hollywood actors seemed to know how to sing…but he sure could.
He crooned into the mic like he’d been born on a stage, his grin full of wicked promise as he glanced sideways at me…like he knew exactly how unhinged I was going to be after this.
The room was inshambles.
Paige was crying with laughter. MeMaw had pulled out her phone and was recording. Someone yelled, “Kiss! Kiss!” which I was going to assume was ironic and not a direct order from the gods of holiday mayhem.
I turned back to the mic, my face on fire, my brain doing everything except cooperating.
Easton leaned in beside me, his voice smooth as silk and full of mock innocence as he delivered his next line. His tone was all charm and wicked suggestion, his eyes practically glowing under the stage lights.
Then he glanced at me again, sideways, sly. His green eyes lit with mischief as his hand slid to the small of my back.
I nearly forgot how to breathe.
Because of course he wasn’t just singing.
