If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 12

Easton

Glasses. Sloppy bun. Pencil skirt. Oversized cardigan. No makeup, but a little gloss on her lips.

Shay agreed to meet me at the coffee kiosk in the lobby of the campus library Wednesday morning, and I’m sure she had no idea that her choice in attire would inspire some serious sexy librarian fantasies.

She grabs her coat off the back of a chair and shrugs into it. “Good. You’re on time. Where do you want to start? I want to be back in my office by ten.”

I grin at her. I’m not about to let her abrasive attitude scare me off. I brought a new fledgling NFL team through its growing pains and to three Super Bowl wins. I am persistence. “Coffee?” I ask, ignoring her scowl.

She opens her mouth, and I know she wants to refuse like she refused the beer I brought up last night, but this is Shay and coffee. I know her weaknesses. “I guess we can drink and walk.”

I’m going to win her back one little victory at a time, and we’ll call this victory number one. “Americano, splash of half and half?”

Something in her expression softens, but she lifts her chin, fighting it. “That would be perfect, thanks.”

I head to the counter to grab our drinks, and she stays at her table and pulls out her phone, an action surely meant to put me in my place. Sure, she might have to show me around campus, but she’s not going to pretend to be happy about it.

“What can I get you?” the barista asks me. His tone sounds as disgusted as his facial expression looks.

“Two grande Americanos. One black, one with cream.”

The dude rolls his eyes. “They come black. Cream’s behind you.”

“Right. Perfect, then.”

The library seems like an odd place for a coffee stand, but apparently the kiosk is part of the college’s efforts to turn the library into a comfortable “hangout” space students will want to use rather than a dusty grave for research they can find online.

I turn and see a tall, bearded hipster dude smiling at Shay. He’s older—not so old that he’s given up on the gym, I notice, but definitely old enough that someone should tell him to cut off the manbun. He plops his briefcase on a table and steps close to her. It’s not exactly inappropriate, but it’s definitely inside her bubble. When he adjusts her scarf, she flashes him a grin that I haven’t seen in way too many years. It’s a grin of adoration and pure feminine satisfaction.

What in the actual fuck is happening here?

Shay says something and then nods. The hipster dude’s eyes go to me, and I hear him ask her something that sounds like “That’s him?” and Shay nods again.

“Sir?” The cranky barista nudges the drinks toward me on the counter. “Your drinks?”

“Thanks.” Giving him a smile he doesn’t deserve, I grab the drinks, add a splash of cream to Shay’s, and head over to meet the guy who seems to think he can look at Shay like . . . like she’s his. “Your coffee,” I say, handing it to her.

She gives a tight smile and takes it. “Thanks. Easton, this is Dr. George Alby. Dr. Alby is a professor in the English department and the chair of my dissertation committee. His collection of essays on Bradbury’s influence on contemporary literature just won the Reichart Prize of Excellence—one of the highest honors in our field.”

“I’m impressed,” I say with a smile that probably says I’m not. But at least I have something to smile about now. Dissertation chair, not boyfriend.

“Dr. Alby, this is Easton. He’s the old family friend I was telling you about.”

I have a large-ass list of career credentials, and she’s going to tell me about his prize while only giving me “family friend.” Fine, then. I offer George my hand. “Nice to meet you, George.” I’ll be damned if I’m going to call him Dr. Alby.

George’s attempt at a firm handshake is laughable. Dude might still know his way around the gym and have eight to ten years on me, but his hands are as soft as a five-year-old boy’s. And yeah, I’m judging. “You’re getting a campus tour today?” he asks.

“Yeah. Shay’s nice enough to show me around.”

She shoots me a death glare that says she’s not doing it out of the goodness of her heart.

“Well, you’re in for a treat,” George says, beaming at her. “Shay’s the best company you could ask for.”

“I know she is. That’s why I wanted her to do it.”

He loops his arm around her shoulders—again, not exactly inappropriate, but definitely more intimate than colleague or mentor. Body language is everything, and his says, She’s mine. I wonder if he knows about her secret boyfriend. “You played football?”

I almost laugh at his blasé tone. As if he’s asking if I played on the intermural team at some accounting firm, but I manage to keep a straight face. “A little.”

Shay rolls her eyes. “Easton was MVP this year. He’s just retired and wrapped up an impressive career with more than four hundred passing touchdowns and over fifty thousand yards.”

I smirk at her. Someone was paying attention.

“I don’t really follow sports,” George says. “Seeing grown men give each other concussions isn’t my idea of fun.”

George can’t keep his eyes off Shay, and it makes me want to punch him. Something about the way he looks at her is so possessive. Do most dissertation chairmen look at their students like they plan to strip them bare and fuck them silly? “Let’s meet after my three o’clock so we can talk about the chapter I want you to rewrite.”

“And you chose him?”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t expect someone in his position to be so territorial around you.” The answer I’m looking for is right there in the way she drops her gaze to her shoes. Shit. “You’re dating him? The hipster academic with the manbun?”

I stiffen. “You’re fucking him.” My words come out a low rumble instead of the matter-of-fact statement I was aiming for. She doesn’t look at me, and I know it’s true. “You’re fucking the chair of your dissertation committee. Isn’t that . . .?”