Page 132 of Merry Me
Snowflakes clung to the ends of his hair, and the corners of his smile crinkled just enough to remind me why I used to stare at him for entire class periods without catching a single word the teacher said.
The courtyard had transformed into a winter painting. Twinkle lights tangled above us. The snow glowed gold. The photographer shouted directions like she was wrangling caffeinated goats, and MeMaw, bless her, flat-out refused to be wrangled.
“I’m not standing next to that shrub,” she announced, pointing at a perfectly innocent pine bush. “I have better things to do than blend in with landscaping.”
“Mom,” my mother hissed, red-faced.
“I’m seventy-eight and fabulous,” MeMaw said, flipping her faux fur stole over one shoulder with flair. “Put me center frame or cut me out entirely.”
The photographer wisely went with center frame.
Somehow, I ended up next to Easton for the “fun” shot—sandwiched between MeMaw, who was still muttering something about hoping the photographer caught her good side, and Easton, who looked like the kind of man who didn’t know how to take a bad photo. Or even a mediocre one. I was dangerously close to looking like a human thumb in comparison.
Then it happened.
The photographer squinted at Easton. Tilted her head. Froze.
“Oh my gosh,” she blurted, nearly dropping her camera. “You’re—you’reEaston Maddox.”
A beat of silence followed. Easton smiled, charming and just a little sheepish. “Guilty.”
Her eyes went saucer-wide. “Oh no. You need to be front and center.”
Easton gestured to the bridal party with a diplomatic shrug. “Pretty sure it’s not my big day.”
The photographer blinked, clearly not computing. “Right. Of course. But maybe…just to the left of the bride? Or, wait! What if we do a shot of you solo?”
“I don’t evengohere,” he murmured under his breath to me, grinning like this was his personal hell and he loved every second of it.
The photographer finally got everyone positioned—Easton suspiciously near the middle—and clapped her hands. “Okay! Let’s get everyone in tighter!”
Before I could even blink, Easton’s arm slipped around my waist. Casual. Confident. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse.
And instead of tensing, instead of offering a joke to cover the soft chaos in my chest, I leaned in. On purpose.
His grip tightened. And everything in me just…settled. Like a breath finally exhaled.
Easton’s whole body froze.
His arm stilled against my back, his fingers paused ever so slightly on my waist…like he didn’t quite believe it. Like this tiny, quiet moment, a lean, a touch, meant more than all the sex we’d been having this week.
When I risked a glance at him, his head was already tipped toward me, eyes bright with something almost boyish. Hopeful. Disbelieving. He looked like he might actually burst into a grin, but was trying really,reallyhard to play it cool.
Spoiler alert: he was failing.
“You good?” he murmured, his voice low enough to stay just between us.
I nodded, my smile tilting. “Yeah. I’m good.”
And the way he looked at me after that—like I’d just handed him the moon—nearly knocked the air out of me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement by the reception hall doors.
A figure stood half in the shadow—broad-shouldered, stiff-backed. Familiar in the way a phantom might be. The kind of familiar that made my stomach twist, not from grief this time, but from muscle memory. From years of flinching at shadows that never stayed.
Terry.
He wasn’t close enough to hear the laughter. Not close enough to be part of anything. But not far enough to pretend he wasn’t watching.
