Page 6 of Merry Me
“Natalie,” Paige said softly, “it’s hilarious that you would even pretend you’re not coming. You know you’re my maid of honor.”
I got all weepy at that, which was rude of her. I didn’t ask to have emotions.
“I am?” I asked, suddenly sounding like a soft marshmallow of a human.
“Nat,” she groaned, exasperated. “Like you didn’t know that.”
I exhaled sharply, trying to get myself under control.
“Of course, I knew that,” I finally said, sounding much more like my usual, fabulous self. “Who else in your life could compare? But if you make me wear one of those hideous Christmas sweaters at any point during the wedding festivities, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Throw away the llama sweater I’m holding. Got it.” She snorted.
A guy’s voice called her name.Levi, I assumed. “Kay, sis. I’ve got to go! Love you. See you soon.”
“Let me know if—” Paige hung up before I could finish my sentence. Also rude.
I flopped back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. I started mentally calculating the odds of Easton being there. He’d been Levi’s closest friend in high school…but that had been a long time ago. Things change. People grow apart. Especially when one of those people becomes a literal movie star and the other—Levi, obviously—still lives in a town where the biggest news last week was the church potluck catching fire.
But what if hewasthere?
That question dug into me like a splinter.
Who gives a fuck,though?I told myself with a little more venom than necessary. I was the one who had ended things. I’m sure he had long forgotten about me. He’d probably see me and shake my hand like we were old business associates. Maybe even thank me for not dragging it out.
Cool. Great. Fabulous.
For the rest of the day, I pretended to care about finals, pretended to pay attention to my group project meeting, pretended I wasn’t internally screaming.
But all I could think was:
What if he’s there?
CHAPTER 3
EASTON
The bright lights were harsh against my face, and the sticky layer of makeup didn’t help. I was supposed to be gazing into my costar’s eyes like she was the love of my life, but my jaw was clenched so tight I could feel a headache forming.
“Take twenty-eight, people. And action,” Paul, our director, called out.
Take twenty-eight. That meant we’d done this exact same scene twenty-seven other times. Twenty-seven other lip-locks. Twenty-seven other failed attempts to capture something that wasn’t there and never would be.
I leaned forward, brushing a hand against her cheek like I’d practiced in the mirror a hundred times, and our lips met.
Don’t flinch, I coached myself as her overeager mouth moved against mine like she was trying to devour me in front of the whole movie set. Her lip gloss tasted like synthetic cherries, and the whole thing felt about as romantic as kissing a corpse.
Not that I knew firsthand what that felt like.
But this had to be close. Somewhere between embalmed and disinterested.
I forced myself to hold the moment, camera-ready and stone-faced, but all I could think about was the last time a kiss had meant something.
Really meant something.
Natalie.
Her name slammed into me like a sucker punch.
