Page 20 of Slapshot Bride

Easton is already looking at me.

His eyes are darker than they were under the boutique lights five minutes ago, his jaw tight, his mouth pressed into a line like he’s concentrating very hard on something that has absolutely nothing to do with a zipper.

My stomach flips.

I should look away, but somehow, I can’t. It’s like something invisible is holding my gaze to his, and for one breathless moment, nothing has ever felt more natural than looking at him like this.

Or more wrong.

I ran away from my wedding yesterday.

Yesterday.

I’m supposed to be devastated. Confused. Emotionally unavailable for the next decade.

I’m definitely not supposed to be standing in a fitting room wondering what would happen if Easton moved half a step closer.

The zipper reaches the top.

His fingers fall away.

For a second, his palm hovers at the small of my back. Close enough that I can feel the heat of it against my skin.

Then I blink, and it’s gone.

He steps back first.

“There,” he says, his voice low and rough, almost a growl. He clears his throat. “All you.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

He turns and slips back through the curtain. I hear him sit down hard on the bench outside.

I stand there in the green dress with my hand pressed to my own sternum and try to remember what breathing is.

When I come out, his eyes are on me. “That is the one. We’re definitely taking it.”

“It's just a dress.”

“Made for you, sweetheart.” The words come out in a voice so low that I could argue I wasn’t meant to hear them.

The rest of the shopping goes on, but he doesn’t look at me anymore. And I notice the distance too. He’s not walking as close as when we arrived. He’s not holding my arm to lead me. He’s just here, a step behind, except he does it again. A palm at the small of my back when Valentina calls us over to a display of jewelry, gone the second I notice it. A hand on my elbow, steadying, when I almost trip on the hem of a longer skirt. Each one of them is so brief that if I were not paying attention I would miss it, and I'm paying attention to every single one of them, and I don't know what to do with any of them.

He pays. Valentina doesn't bat an eyelash at the total. The bags go into the car through the back lot, no paparazzi this time.

We pull out onto the road.

His phone buzzes on the dashboard mount.

This time, the name flashes in white on the small screen before he can do anything about it.

Maya.

It's up there for maybe a second and a half before he reaches forward and silences it, face flat, eyes on the road, not looking at me.

A girlfriend? It’s the first thing I register, with a frown but I shake it off.