Page 28 of Merry Me
“If I see mistletoe, Iwilllight it on fire, Easton Maddox.”
“’Tis the season,” he said, all smug and amused like my barely-contained breakdown was his favorite show on Netflix.
Yanking my arm from Easton’s grip, I hustled over to reception, where a woman in her sixties stood behind the polished mahogany check-in desk decorated with a glimmeringgarland, her round glasses perched on the tip of her nose as she peered over the lenses at me with an aggressively cheerful smile. A red-and-green plaid scarf was wrapped around her neck, and a festive pin in the shape of a tiny Christmas wreath was fastened to her cream-colored cardigan. Everything about her screamed “holiday spirit.”
“Welcome to the Pinewood Bed-and-Breakfast!” she chirped. “Where the beds are cozy, the cocoa is bottomless, and the Christmas magic never runs out!”
I blinked at her. That was…a lot.
The woman beamed, clearly expecting some kind of enthusiastic response, so I forced a smile. “Sounds…great.”
Easton, of course, was beside me now, oozing charm like a freaking peppermint mocha with legs.
I leaned over the counter. “Natalie Bennett,” I said, trying not to sound as crazed as I felt at the moment. “It should be under the wedding block.”
The woman—Margaret, according to her name tag—typed away with festive purpose. I blinked at the fact that her keyboard was red with little green LED lights. That was what you called going all in.
“Hmm…” she said, her smile dimming. “That’s strange, dear.”
I knew that tone. Fuck. That was the “there’s been a horrible mistake, but I’m going to deliver the news like a Christmas angel” tone.
“What’s strange?” I asked in a tight voice.
“It seems there might have been a glitch in the system. I don’t have a room under your name.”
I blinked, leaning over the counter to look at the screen, too, as if that would somehow conjure up my name. “That can’t be right. Maybe my sister put it under her name when she reserved it. She’s the bride, Paige Bennett,” I said quickly.
Next to me, Easton was checking in with a man who was theclosest thing to a living, breathing Santa Claus that I’d ever seen. Margaret’s husband—at least, I assumed that’s who he was—was straight out of a Christmas card. He had a full, snow-white beard that spilled down his chest in a soft, cloudlike mess, rosy cheeks that looked like they’d been pinched by angels, and a round belly that stretched the buttons of his red-and-black flannel shirt like it had hosted one too many gingerbread cookies. If the man let out aho, ho, ho, I was going to drop everything and become a true believer.
“Donald Humphries,” Easton drawled, flashing Santa his most devastating smile as he slid a sleek black wallet out of his coat.
I blinked.
That was the name of our old high school football coach.
The same Donald Humphries who had smelled like mothballs and wore athletic shorts pulled so high he could’ve smuggled his lunch in the waistband, paired with a whistle he never stopped blowing, and a visor that seemed permanently glued to his forehead. Not exactly the suave alias I would’ve gone with.
I steadfastly ignored how much I loved the sound of Easton’s voice. It was too bad I couldn’t have enjoyed it more on the drive here, but obviously that hadn’t been possible.
Santa’s eyebrows raised, and then he nodded as Easton handed him an ID that clearly wouldn’t have that name. Obviously, this had been arranged beforehand.
He was smirking at me, of course. Probably because I was staring like I’d forgotten how eyes worked.
I forced myself to look away and pretend to be normal. The effort was herculean. I focused on the Christmas tree. The garland. The twinkle lights. Anything but the fact that Easton was giving a fake name. Because that’s what celebrities did, right? They used fake names. I’d seen that in gossip columns. You know, the ones I definitely didn’t read late at night in bed while pretending I wassoover him.
Gird your loins,Natalie.
This was why I’d left. This. Exactly this. His life was fake names and assistants and glossy premiere photos. And mine was…Nerds Gummies and a beat-up car named Old Bessie.
Easton’s frown deepened slightly as he glanced over at me; he could always read my moods like a flipping road map, and for one traitorous second, I thought he looked…sad. But then Santa let out a hearty chuckle.
“Ah, yes! One of the groomsmen, I assume? We’ve got you in the Evergreen Suite—top floor, best view of the mountains. A fan of Christmas, are ya?”
“Something like that,” Easton said with a chuckle, his eyes still on me.
“I’m so sorry, darlin’,” Margaret said, breaking Easton’s and my much too heavy eye contact. “But there’s only one room coming up under your sister’s name.”
“Do you have your reservation number?” Easton asked oh so helpfully as he leaned one elbow on the counter.
