If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 8

Easton

The last time I was in the Jackson Brews bar, it was a hole in the wall, bordering on a dive bar. At the time, Jake was trying to turn it into something more. I can’t say I totally understood his vision at the time, but the transformation he’s created here is phenomenal.

Despite the snow outside, every booth in the bar is full. Patrons crowd around the tables, mingle at high-tops set around the pool tables, and lean against any free space at the bar. Waitstaff bustle about in jeans and red Jackson Brews T-shirts, and I nearly do a spit take when I see the back of one.

Jackson Brews

The bar, the beer, and oh Lord . . . the BROTHERS!

I spot Jake behind the bar, his messy skater hair hanging over one eye. I grab a stool just as its occupant leaves. “Nice place, Jake.”

He grins at me. “I forgot how long it’s been for you. You probably haven’t been here since . . .” The amusement fades from his face. “Probably Dad’s funeral, huh?”

“I didn’t make it over here during that trip,” I say, still taking it all in. Even the ritzy bars in Laguna smell a little like stale beer, but this place is sparkling. The pride in his ownership is evident. “I should’ve made the time. Seriously. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Jake waves away my apology. “Don’t give it another thought. What can I get you? Beer? Food?”

I glance at the chalkboard menus over his head. “How’s the Jackson Haze?”

“Well, it’s one of mine, so it’s excellent, of course. You like hazy IPAs?”

“I do. Let me try that one.”

“Got it.” He pours my beer and listens to a waitress from the floor rattle off an order for her table. This place isn’t all that’s evolved. Jake has too. The whole family has.

“I can’t believe you and Ava ended up together. I think she spent more time at your house when we were growing up than I did.” I shake my head. “I thought you two would never see what was right in front of you.”

“I’m the luckiest ass you’ll ever meet,” he says, and I can see in his eyes that he means it.

I see another waitress wearing a BROTHERS T-shirt. She slides into a booth with a group of women—no, she can’t be a waitress. Unless she’s on a break or something? “What’s up with the T-shirts?”

Jake plops a coaster on the counter in front of me and sets my beer on it. “The girls thought those up one night after they’d had too many drinks. The customers love them. Brayden hates them.”

Brayden was always the uber-responsible Jackson brother. “Who are ‘the girls’?”

“You know, all our . . .” He waves a hand.

“Your women?”

“More or less, but Shay is among their ranks and would punch me if she heard me describe them that way, so I was trying to come up with a better descriptor.”

I grin. “Of course she would.” And since I came here hoping to run into her, it’s all I can do not to scan the bar again at the mention of her name. I accused her of giving me the silent treatment, and she proved she wasn’t. What I should’ve said was she was shutting me out. Because she is. She has for years. I fucking let her because it was easier than facing the fact that my decisions hurt her.

I sip my beer, not tasting it when I’m so busy thinking about Shay. How did I forget the way her eyes seem to pull me under? How did I forget the way she can use that smart mouth of hers to take control of any situation?

“What do you think?” Jake asks.

I snap my head up. “What?”

Jake folds his arms. “The beer?”

I have no idea. “It’s great. Really smooth, Jake. Well done.”

He smiles. “Thanks. I’m pretty happy with this one.”

I take a breath and a chance. “Jake . . .”

He arches a brow, waiting. “Easton?”

Fuck it. What do I have to lose? “Is Shay seeing anyone?”

He shakes his head. “Not that I know of. Why? . . . Oh, fuck.” His lips twitch. “You still have the hots for my little sister?”

Jake knew about it too? I must’ve done an even worse job hiding it than I thought. “To say the least,” I mutter.

“I would’ve thought thirteen years in L.A. and all those actresses and models in your bed would’ve cured you of that.”

“One actress and one model,” I say. But it wouldn’t matter if there were a hundred of each. I’m pretty sure this thing I feel for Shay is incurable. “Did Carter tell you or Shay?”

“Carter told me that you— Wait. Shay knows?”

“Shay knows what?”

Speak of the devil. My skin tingles at the sound of that voice, and I slowly turn to see Shay striding toward the bar. The sight of her steals the breath from my lungs. She looked beautiful this morning in a T-shirt and jeans, but tonight, her legs are on display. Her little black dress clings to the luscious curves of her ass, and her pink sweater brings out the color in her cheeks. She’s fucking irresistible—even when her eyes flash with annoyance at the sight of me and she braces her hands on her hips like she’s preparing for battle.

Jake looks between me and his sister, then shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not touching this.”

She arches a brow. “Shay knows what?”

“You know that I think you’re beautiful,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “At least, I think you know.”

Something like hurt flashes across her face, but she shakes it away and turns to her brother. “I need the biggest fucking martini you’ve ever served, and I need it now.”

“Okay then,” Jake says.

“Bad day?” I can’t help smiling, because she’s here. I can tell the feeling isn’t mutual, but my day just got a hell of a lot better.

“Weird night,” she mutters. Shaking her head, she steps behind the bar. “Never mind, Jake. I think this calls for more than vodka.”

Jake steps back, clearly smart enough to know when Shay’s on a mission and he needs to get out of her way. “Do you want to talk about it or—”

“No.” In a series of jerky motions, she grabs vodka, Baileys, Godiva, and Kahlua from the shelf.

Jake grimaces as she pours shots of each into a martini shaker. “What the hell are you making?”

“A martini.”

“It’s called And the Kitchen Sink. Star made them at her annual fundraiser for the women’s shelter. It’s a dessert martini. I only had a sip of Nic’s because I was afraid of the calories, but I’ve decided fuck it.” She ducks down and pulls open the fridge under the bar. “Do we have any heavy cream?”

“But I don’t want diabetes,” he says with a grimace.

I nod to the vacant barstool. “Sit here, Shayleigh. We’ll self-medicate together. Unless you are giving me the silent treatment, that is.”

I wait for it—that smile of hers that makes me believe that somehow everything will be okay, the comforting stillness of sitting next to her, the warmth of her laughter. Hell, it’s been too long since I’ve heard that sound, since I’ve watched joy blossom on her face and felt like maybe I was born to put it there. I’ve missed her.