If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 23

Easton

I’m back at Jackson Brews, Scarlett is settled into a room at the Tiffany B&B, and Shay is God knows where. I’m loitering in the hopes that I’ll see her. She never replied to my text, and my stomach sours every time I consider that she might be with Professor Douche.

Jake clears his throat and nods to the kitchen. “Can you help me in the back with something, East?”

“Sure.” I put down my beer and follow him into the kitchen.

Grimacing, he leans against the counter and runs a hand through his sloppy mop of hair.

“What do you need?” I look around the kitchen for something heavy that needs lifting or boxes that need to be unpacked—anything to explain why he brought me back here. What I don’t do is look at his office or even walk near it. I won’t return to the scene of the crime with Jake watching.

Not that it felt like a crime. It never feels wrong when I’m with Shay.

Jake takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again. What the hell?

“What’s up, Jake?”

“Listen.” He winces, like just having to come up with words is causing him physical pain. “I’ve never had to do the protective-big-brother thing. I respect Shay and know she can make her own decisions.”

I arch a brow. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a big but waiting at the end of that sentence?”

“I heard you and Shay fighting in the office tonight.” He rolls his neck. “Then I heard you . . . not fighting.”

“Oh.” While under a different set of circumstances, I’d be happy to own up to what I was doing with his little sister in there, I have a feeling Jake doesn’t want to hear that Shay seduced me into a veritable hate-fuck against his office door.

“Oh? That’s all you have? Seriously?” He mutters an impressive string of curses. “This is when you’re supposed to tell me it wasn’t what I think. Dammit.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “Jake . . .” But what do I say? Yeah, I screwed your sister in your office, but only when she insisted? Don’t worry, we used a condom from your desk?

“First of all, regardless of how the rest of this conversation goes, let’s just establish that’s my office. I’m going to have to have my cleaning lady in to disinfect the place. The only sex that’s permitted inside this kitchen is between me and my wife. Got it?”

I laugh, but it’s forced. This conversation is painful. I’ve had testicular exams less awkward. “Sure.”

He folds his arms. “Are you serious about her, or is she just some convenient lay to you?”

My brows shoot up. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course I’m not kidding. You think I’m enjoying this conversation? This is Shay, Easton. She’s . . .” He shakes his head. “Do you remember the guy she was with in high school and college?”

Steve. How could I forget the ass who had her so nervous he might call it quits if she didn’t give him her virginity? The guy who stayed with her only to dump her in Paris? I bet I know more about Steve than the Jackson brothers do. “Yeah, I remember him.”

“They dated for, like . . . three years?”

“Two and a half.” I wonder if she ever told her family that I met her in Paris. Obviously she didn’t tell them what we did there, but she could have admitted we spent time together. Fuck, after the bomb I dropped when she got back to the States, I bet she didn’t talk about it at all. That would be like Shay. She’d rather pretend she wasn’t hurt than risk my relationship with her family.

“And then there’s this mystery guy she’s been seeing from her work. The guy I assumed she was still seeing until she . . .” He pulls a face. He doesn’t have to finish that sentence for me to understand what he means. He has the face of a brother who now has more knowledge of his baby sister’s sex sounds than he ever wanted to have.

“They’re seeing other people.” The words taste bad. Shay isn’t the kind to sleep around. While I wouldn’t judge her if she were, that’s not what she’s about. She’s a long-term kind of girl. I know she is. We’ve both carried this thing for each other for more than a decade. But as the guy who just had a quickie with her in the bar office, I’m not sure I’m the one to judge her choice to have casual sex with some asshole professor.

Jake shakes his head then turns to the counter and starts unloading plates into stacks at the end of the service line. “Did you know she always had a thing for you?”

I meet his eyes. “Always as in when?”

Jake shrugs. “Always always.”

I’m pretty sure any thing she had went both ways. “Did she say something to you?”

“She never talks about that stuff. Not to me, at least. But she didn’t have to tell me. I could see it. She followed you around every time you were over. After you moved away, every time Carter brought you up, she’d hang on every word.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, faced again with how much I lost when I fucked up with her. But even with the horrible ache of that knowledge, I can’t regret going down the path that gave me Abi. “I’ve had a thing for Shay for a long time too.” It’s ridiculous that I’ve never admitted that to anyone other than Shay herself. Carter only knew I couldn’t keep my eyes off his sister. He didn’t understand that there was more to it than a gut-level physical attraction.

“Is that what this is?” Jake asks. “This is all about you having feelings for my sister?”

I rock back on my heels. “Strong feelings.” Those words are too weak, so I try again. “I like Shay. A lot.”

He looks me up and down. “Good. Because you’re a pretty big dude, and I don’t know if I’d survive if I tried to kick your ass, but I’d have to try if you were using my baby sister for sex.”

Me using her for sex? I think you might have that backward, Jake. “I want something real with her. A relationship. I’ve wanted that for years, and now the time is finally right, but it might be too late. I’m doing everything I can to convince her to give me a chance.”

Jake nods. “Okay. But from here on out, please exclude fucking in my office from your list of everything you can.” He shudders. “I can’t unhear that.”

“Got it.”

“I trust you not to hurt her,” he says, which is a bigger kick in the nuts than he realizes. “Now, excuse me. I need to find a neurologist to cut the memories of tonight from my brain.”

Shay

I baked. I don’t remember the last time I let myself make anything with sugar and flour—high school? Maybe middle school?

I used to bake with Mom all the time. I loved it, loved the feel of sweet, buttery treats melting on my tongue, fresh out of the oven. And my love for it showed around my stomach and hips.

But last night when I couldn’t sleep, I got out of bed and made chocolate chip cookies for Easton and his daughter. Because nothing says “sorry about the hate-fuck” like a plate of baked goods.

The trip to Oklahoma was a bust. I knew from the moment they picked me up from the airport that the job wasn’t a good fit for me. I don’t have a good explanation—just that it didn’t feel right. They said they’d contact me with their decision in May, but I already know I won’t leave my family for that position. If George wants to judge me for that, so be it.

I park my car by Easton’s Lakeview Drive home and grab the tray of cookies from the passenger seat with shaking hands. I feel a little bit like some sweet suburban housewife welcoming the new family to the neighborhood. I’ve rehearsed my speech in my head a dozen times. “I know I wasn’t very welcoming when you were in town, and I’m sorry. If you’re living in Jackson Harbor, you’ll be part of my life, and I want us to be friends.”

“Friends” might be a stretch. I don’t think I can be friends with Easton Connor. It might physically hurt too much. But my behavior during his last visit left a bad feeling in my stomach. I’m not proud of myself.

Taking a deep breath, I walk up his front steps and knock on the door.

I braced myself for Easton’s anger or his disarming charm. I braced myself to maybe see him shirtless or in a business suit.

I did not brace myself for the bright-eyed twenty-something beauty who answers the door.

“Can I help you?” she asks. She’s in a T-shirt that’s cut off just above her navel and a pair of fitted shorts that cover less than the panties I’m currently wearing beneath my jeans. Her hair is in a high ponytail, her eyes are bright, and her smile is . . . perfect.

I am such an idiot.

I stumble back a step. “I think . . . Sorry, I . . . Wrong house.” I’m such a liar. This is definitely the right house. Not only did I confirm the address with Ellie before I came, but everyone in this town knows what house belongs to future NFL Hall of Famer Easton Connor.

I turn on my heel and rush down the steps, still carrying the goddamn tray of cookies. I’m enough of a mess that I might eat these things if I weren’t in some sort of chronic state of vague illness lately. This stress is gonna be the death of me if even cookies don’t sound good.

I run smack into a bare-chested Easton, and the cookies fly everywhere. Good thing I wasn’t counting on a binge. “Shit. Sorry. Fuck.” Busted.

“Shayleigh.” He says my name so softly. Not like a curse—which I’d deserve after the way I treated him the last time I saw him—but like a song.

I drop to my hands and knees, picking up the cookies to save myself from having to look him in the eye.

He arches a brow, waiting, and I will myself to say the words. “I’m sorry I treated you like my own personal sex toy. I’m sorry I pretended there’s never been anything between us but sex. I’m sorry I freaked out when your wife showed up.”

“Um, your . . . girlfriend is there.” I doubt she’s a girlfriend per se, but referring to her as his latest screw seems rude.

“Are you talking about Tori?”

“The blonde who answered my door would be Tori, my nanny,” he says with a freight-ton of emphasis on the last word. He’s not just saying she’s his nanny; he’s saying I’m freaking mental for assuming something else. I know it to be true, so I’m not going to argue.

He rocks back on his heels with a deep breath, then pushes himself to standing. Because I’m a bitch. Obviously. Shit.

He’s going to make me say it. Sonofabitch. “The sex.” I grind out the word.

His lips twitch again, and then he stops fighting it and full-on smiles. “I didn’t need an apology for the sex.” He rakes his gaze over me and back up. “I liked the sex, Shay. You’re right. We are good together. I didn’t take issue with the sex. I took issue with the part where you made assumptions and refused to talk to me.”

I’m a few steps inside the door when the nanny—I am an idiot—greets me a second time. “Hi again!” She looks from me to Easton and back to me again. “You had the right house after all.”