Page 88 of Merry Me
Instant regret.
Instant butterflies.
“I hate you for being so good at this,” I muttered as he pulled me gently toward him, guiding me away from the wall.
“No, you don’t,” he said, smiling like he had a secret and I was it. “You love me.”
My heart hiccupped at the word. That word.
But I played it cool. I always played it cool.
“I tolerate you,” I said breezily. “I tolerate you with fondness.”
“That’s a dangerous level of affection, Trouble,” he murmured—spinning me—like I wasn’t a sentient panic attack in rental skates.
“Don’t get cocky.”
I let out a very undignified squeak as I nearly collided with a toddler in a puffy coat, but Easton caught me. Of course he did. His hands gripped my waist, grounding me instantly.
“Okay,” I panted, breathless. “You’re good. Exactly how are you so good again?”
“I played hockey for five years before I moved to town,” he said. “And also, I’m a man of many hidden talents.”
“How did I not know you played hockey?” I asked, trying to think if that had ever come up.
“I was always much too interested in finding out everything about you to tell you everything about me,” he said with a wink.
But for some reason, the thought of that didn’t sit well. And it made me think far too much.
I let him lead me around the rink, trying not to look like I was a malfunctioning Roomba. Every time I stumbled, he caught me. Every time I cursed under my breath, he laughed softly and told me I was doing great.
And I hated it.
I hated how good he felt.
How goodthisfelt.
Like we still fit. Like we hadn’t been ripped apart, reshaped by heartbreak and distance and time. Like we were still made of the same notes in the same song, even if we hadn’t heard the melody in a while.
“You know,” he said, voice dropping into something lower, something that curled around my spine, “you’re better than you think.”
I raised a skeptical eyebrow, focusing on not toppling into a nearby bridesmaid. “At skating?”
He shook his head, a soft smile playing at his lips. “At letting go.”
I blinked at him, my heart thudding once, twice, too loud beneath my ribs. “That’s a bold observation from someone currently holding me upright.”
“And yet,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine, “you’re not fighting me off.”
I rolled my eyes to hide the flutter in my chest. “I’m cold and helpless and a little drunk. It’s purely survival instinct.”
“Of course it is,” he said with a grin that somehow looked like it knew every version of me: past, present, and the one I hadn’t quite become yet.
He slowed us to a gentle stop near the middle of the rink. The lights above sparkled gold and soft white, like someone had strung a galaxy across the night just for us. Music floated from the speakers—a slow song, something warm and crooning, the kind of track that always hit harder in December.
He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from my face, the tips of his fingers grazing my temple, my cheek. The touch was light, reverent. Like he didn’t want to startle the moment in case it decided to vanish.
“You know what I wish?” he asked, his voice quieter now. Almost careful.
