Page 51 of Merry Me
Speaking of mimosas…Natalie was currently sitting as far from me as physically possible in the room. Her focus was laser-pointed on the glass in front of her like it held the answers to all of life’s mysteries. Or, more likely, like she could manifest it into a shield and block me from her memory entirely.
I watched her, taking a sip of my coffee and pretending to care about the guy in a reindeer onesie making balloon animals. She was flustered.
And shehatedthat she was flustered.
I knew her too well—her tells, her habits, the way her foot tapped when she was anxious or overstimulated. She was at war with herself right now, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t entertaining as hell.
But I wasn’t here to play. I was here to win her back.
I smirked to myself, strolling over to the buffet and loading up a plate—not for me. Forher. The plate practically looked like it had been curated by a personal chef who’d spent years studying her exact taste buds. Blueberry pancakes. Crisp bacon. Scrambled eggs with a ridiculous amount of cheese. I even made her a coffee exactly how she liked it, a splash of milk, two shots of espresso, and five tablespoons of sugar…because I wasn’t above playing dirty.
The second I placed the plate in front of her, she narrowed her eyes at me like I’d just handed her a proposal on bended knee instead of breakfast. Her cheeks went pink, which only made me grin harder.
She was so fucking beautiful it actually hurt to look at her.
I winked before sliding into a chair a few spots down…close enough to watch her squirm, but far enough to give her the illusion of space. I stretched out, all fake nonchalance, like my heart wasn’t thudding in my chest every time she looked at me.
“You looked hungry, Trouble.”
She stared at me with that look that made men flinch and wait for objects to be thrown. “Did you poison this?”
I leaned forward, voice low, just for her. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d just kiss you again.”
Her fork froze halfway to her mouth, eyes wide like she’d forgotten I was capable of weaponizing charm.
And then—then—she took a bite of the pancakes.
Her lashes fluttered.
Her lips parted just slightly.
For half a second, she forgot to be mad.
Andthat, that tiny flicker of pleasure on her face, was everything. My own little Christmas miracle.
I adjusted my dick under the table because apparently some things hadn’t changed over the years…like the fact that I was still painfully attracted toeverythingNatalie did. Chewing? Turn-on. Sipping a mimosa? Somehow erotic. Literally just existing?Torture. She could be reading a cereal box, and I’d be halfway to losing it.
I dug into my own food, doing my best impression of a man with chill, and pretended not to notice how her shoulders relaxed just a fraction. How the tight lines around her mouth eased as she took another bite of pancake, the tiniest sigh escaping her like the food had knocked down at least one of the walls she kept barricading between us.
If this was what it took to break down her walls—one carefully planned breakfast at a time—I was willing to play the long game.
I just needed to keep pushing.
I took a sip of my coffee and decided to keep the momentum going. “You look beautiful,” I said smoothly, like it was just a casual observation and not the culmination of twenty-three months of deprivation.
Natalie snorted into her mimosa, coughing a little as she swallowed. “Well, obviously. What do you want?”
I grinned at the sass, loving her more in that moment than was probably healthy. “What, a guy can’t compliment his—”Ex-girlfriend?Soulmate?Girl who had broken his heart but still owned every inch of it? “Girl?”
She arched a brow, her expression somewhere between amused and mildly homicidal. Her mouth opened, probably to tell me I had absolutely lost my mind, but before she could get the words out, the double doors burst open behind us.
An obnoxious, booming “HO, HO, HO!” rolled across the room like thunder.
Every head turned as “Santa Claus” made his grand entrance.
Except, not just any Santa Claus.
Brian. Fucking. Sanders.
