Page 103 of Merry Me
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.
I pulled it out instinctively, frowning at the screen. It was the same unknown number that had called before. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the answer button. A strange twist of unease curled in my stomach again, but I shoved it down.
Not today.
Not here.
I hit ignore, stuffing the phone back into my pocket and forcing a smile as Easton glanced over.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yep, just holiday spam. Probably trying to sell me reindeer-shaped waffle makers or something.”
Easton’s shoulder brushed mine as he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “So, do you have a plan, or are we winging this like the absolute chaos magnet you are?”
I glanced down at my crumpled list. “According to Paige’s text rants, we still need a gift for Aunt Kathy, something for Paige’s murdery cat, and a mystery item she won’t name but insists I’ll know when I see it.”
“Wait,” he cut in. “We’re shopping for a cat?”
I looked at him deadpan. “You haven’t met Lucifer? He’s an eight-pound demon. If he doesn’t get a gift, someone loses a limb.”
Easton burst out laughing. “All right, homicidal cat gift first. Priorities.”
We wandered through the mayhem, hand in hand, and I was embarrassingly aware of every time his thumb swept over mine. Easton Maddox—former heartbreak, current maybe-something—was shockingly good at picking out cat toys. He held up a feathery thing on a spring with the seriousness of someone choosing a diamond ring.
“You know a disturbing amount about cats,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“My publicist has three. They’ve all evil and try to overthrow her house on a weekly basis, but there’s one who actually tolerates me,” he said, like that was a perfectly normal sentence.
“Let me guess…it’s the one that knocks over the Christmas tree for fun, isn’t it?”
He grinned. “Guilty. That little psychopath thinks I’m cool.”
I laughed. “Figures you’d bond with the diabolical one.”
“Clearly,” he said, nudging me with a flirty wink, “I have a type.”
I shot him a look. “You did not just compare me to a sociopathic cat.”
“I didn’t saysociopathic,” he replied, all wide-eyed innocence. “There’s a subtle difference.”
We were rounding a corner by a kiosk selling hot cocoa-scented candles when it happened.
A scream.
High-pitched. Terrifying. The kind of sound that usually accompanied a boy band member taking off a shirt.
Easton and I both turned simultaneously, looking back toward the food court.
A pack of teenage girls were staring at us. Two dozen at least, charging like caffeinated elves on a mission, phones raised high and glitter posters waving wildly—the very ones we’d just been mocking. I wasn’t sure how they’d managed to create those in the small amount of time we’d been here. But evidently the gloriousness of Easton’s face could create miracles.
I watched as one girl face-planted over her UGG boot, popped back up like it was nothing, and kept sprinting on sheer adrenaline and fangirl determination.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathed, panic already fizzing in my chest.
Easton took a step back, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. “I think they recognized me.”
“You think?” I deadpanned, heart hammering as the crowd surged closer.
