by Ryan, Lexi
“Shay . . .” He takes my hand and toys with my fingers. “You can trust me with whatever’s going on in your head. I don’t scare off easily.”
But everything in my head is awful. My head is full of a laundry list of Easton’s qualities and all the ways George. . . isn’t him. “Did you know Easton Connor is moving back to Jackson Harbor?” I can tell by George’s baffled expression that he has no idea who Easton is. That makes me laugh. “Easton Connor, the quarterback? Two-time Super Bowl MVP?”
George wrinkles his nose and shrugs. He’s adorable, and normally a show of NFL ignorance would be a point in his favor, because it means never having to answer all the crazy fan questions about what it was like to grow up with Easton. Tonight it irritates me. And the fact that I’m irritated is irritating. I blame Easton for it all. He’s like a drug. He messes with my brain on a chemical level.
“Easton Connor is an NFL player who grew up in Jackson Harbor,” I explain patiently. “He was best friends with my brother Carter growing up, and he was at brunch today.”
George tilts his head to the side. “Okay . . .”
I look away. I don’t want to admit my complicated past with Easton to anyone, but sharing it with an academic who sneers at professional athletes is really high on my list of do not want. “We haven’t seen each other in years, and it’s messed with me a little.”
“You’re struggling because you’ve reconnected with your brother’s childhood best friend?” he asks. “Or you’re struggling because he used to be something to you?”
“He was never anything to me,” I blurt. Way too defensive. “Not officially, at least.”
“He hurt you?”
I feel like that description is simultaneously too harsh and too weak. “Yes, but he never intended to. He was hard to get over.”
“Your first love?”
My eyes fill with hot tears. Totally unexpected and even more unacceptable. Stupid emotions. “I don’t know if I’d use that word.” Though with Easton, there’s no other word that comes close to what I felt. “My family never knew.”
He cocks his head to the side. George really is a grade-A listener. “Why was it a secret?”
Because it wasn’t real? Because Carter would’ve killed him? Because I wasn’t enough to make it worth telling the truth? “It was never really a thing, but a . . .” I shrug.
“He slept with you and you fell for him, but nothing came of it.”
Wincing at that painfully accurate summary, I shrug again. Excellent communicating, Shayleigh.
“And then he left for the NFL and forgot about you?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Not exactly. We . . . reconnected a couple of times over the years.”
“Let me guess—when you were convenient.”
It’s not a question so much as an assumption, and I don’t fully understand why it cuts so deep. Because it feels too accurate, or because George can’t imagine me being something more than a convenient diversion to someone like Easton?
George nods slowly, taking my lack of response as confirmation. “Does he know how you felt about him?”
“I think so.” I thought he felt the same, and then he was just a young guy desperately trying to do the right thing. I had to let him go. “It’s not a big deal, but it’s something I need to process.”
“Are you sure that’s all?” He reaches across the table and runs a fingertip over my knuckles. The touch should be comforting, but I want to shake him off. I’m such a mess.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, should I be worried that you’re going to throw away a bright future for this guy?”
“No. Of course not. That’s not why I . . .” I shake my head. I’m not even sure what future he’s referring to. My career, or my relationship with him? Surely the former, right? “I’ve just been thinking about the past. I’m fine. I’m not looking to reunite with Easton, I promise.”
He squeezes my hand. “Good.” He nods to my plate. “Are you done?”
The smell of my favorite pasta carbonara turns my stomach tonight, but George had ordered my usual for me by the time I arrived, and I didn’t want to be rude. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
Standing, he pulls out his wallet and throws cash on the table to cover our meal. He leads me from my seat and cups my jaw in both hands, kissing me long and full and . . . Damn. This is why I fell into bed with him that first time. He can listen, and he can kiss. I never thought I’d find myself in a relationship like this, and yet here I am, sneaking around. It’s not that what we’re doing is against the rules, but it’s certainly frowned upon. At the very least, it will make people think twice about my accomplishment when I finally get my doctorate.
“You’re way too good for some guy who gets paid to knock other guys around on a field,” he whispers against my mouth. “Just remember that.”
I grimace, wishing he didn’t have to bring his anti-athlete snobbery into this. And seriously, who doesn’t know that quarterbacks do the ball throwing and not the knocking around?
“Ready to go home?” he asks.
Home. The place we stay when we sleep together is hardly home to either of us.
George has a daughter in Chicago and lives there Thursday night through Tuesday morning to be with her. He teaches a Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday schedule at Starling and lives in a studio apartment near campus those days. This weekend was one of the rare exceptions when he stuck around Starling for department obligations.
His phone buzzes on the table, and he cuts his eyes to it before looking back to me. “Do you mind? I’m waiting for a call from my secretary about arrangements for next month’s speaker series.”
“On a Sunday?”
“No rest for the wicked.” Winking, he grabs the phone and swipes to answer it. “George Alby speaking.”
I point to the bathroom, and he nods toward the street and mouths, Meet me outside?
“Sure.”
In the bathroom, I wash my hands and breathe. Until I started talking about Easton, I didn’t realize how much I was dreading tonight’s conversation. If someone accused me of intentionally omitting my history with Easton from what I’ve shared with George, I would’ve denied it like crazy. But now? Now I realize I didn’t want to talk about it because I knew George would make me face a past I’m not ready to face.
It’s not like Easton and I are going to try to have something real now that he’s back home. I wouldn’t want that even if I was single. I have too many feelings of rejection and heartache where he’s concerned to ever want that.
I close my eyes and remember the buzz that went across my skin when Easton found me alone in the kitchen. The way I could feel him enter the room. Intellectually, I’m totally on board with letting Easton go forever, but my pheromones haven’t gotten the message yet.
With a deep breath, I push out of the bathroom and back into the restaurant toward the front.
“Ma’am?” Our waiter from earlier nods to our table. “Your date left his jacket.”
“Oh, no! Thanks.” I grab George’s jacket off the back of the chair. When I sling it over my arm, something falls from the pocket and bounces off my shoe before rolling under the table. “Shit.” I drop to my knees and reach under the table.
When my hand closes over the soft velvet box, my heart seems to stop in my chest. No. We’re not there yet. Surely this isn’t . . .
I stare at the box, terrified to open it and find out what’s inside.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?” the waiter asks.
I quickly hide the box under George’s jacket and stand. “I’m just clumsy. Thanks again.”
Through the windows at the front of the restaurant, I can see George pacing the sidewalk as he talks with his secretary. That’s one of the things I love about him—he’s passionate about his job. While I enjoy my time in the classroom, George thrives on all of it—the advising, the committee work, the publishing. The man even gets a freakish pleasure from grading papers.
And he
really is a good listener, and fun to be around. There’s a lot to love about him, but I don’t even know if I could say that I love him. We’ve never even met each other’s families.
I didn’t think he wanted to change that.
I clutch the box in my hand. Maybe it’s not what I think. Maybe he bought me a necklace or earrings. Maybe it’s not even for me.
Holding my breath, I open the lid and shut it just as quickly. My eyes burn, and I’m not sure why. I am definitely overreacting. There has to be a reasonable explanation for George bringing a giant solitaire diamond ring to dinner with me.
I shove the box into the pocket of his jacket and head out front.
George’s eyes go wide when he sees the jacket over my arm. “I can’t believe I forgot that.”
“The . . .” I clear my throat and force a smile. There’s no way that ring is for you, Shayleigh. Chill the fuck out. “The waiter made sure I didn’t forget it.”
He drags a hand through his hair, making a mess of the dark blond curls before tying them back into his signature manbun. When he takes the jacket from me, he pats the pockets before his shoulders relax and he smiles at me. “Sorry. I’m just a little frazzled tonight. Come on. Let’s go.”
I take a deep breath. “Actually, I think I want to head home.” I squeeze his arm, an effort at reassurance for myself as much as him. I’m totally not running away from a romantic evening with George that may or may not include a ring. That would be unreasonable when there’s no reason to think that ring is for me. Maybe he’s . . . holding it for a friend. “I’m going to hole up in my apartment and work on my revisions all day tomorrow.”
“I understand.” He pinches my chin and smiles down at me. “You can make it up to me next time.”
At some point, we’re going to have to talk about the future, and about what happens to us when I leave Starling for a job with another university—no matter what fell out of his pocket. But I’m a coward and can’t do it tonight. Not with Easton’s smell in my nose and my body still buzzing from our reunion.
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 g
et 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.”
“Yeah, I guessed as much,” he mutters. “But what the hell kind of martini is that?”
“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?”
Jake’s brows have totally disappeared under his messy hair. “Who are you, and what did you do with my calorie-conscious sister?”
Shay sighs dramatically and grabs her martini shaker, disappearing into the kitchen.
We both watch the door, waiting for her to return. When she does, she’s capped off the martini shaker and is shaking it so hard her tits bounce—not that I’m looking.
Jake cautiously grabs a martini glass off the shelf and hands it to her.
“Don’t judge until you try it,” she says, pouring.
“But I don’t want diabetes,” he says with a grimace.
“Whatever. Suit yourself.” The glass is filled to the rim when she pulls the shaker away, and she sighs, satisfied. But then she just stands there and stares at it.
“Are you going to try it?” Jake asks.
“Of course I am.”
“Okay, because it looks like you were just going to admire it all night.”
She bites her bottom lip, pulling off some of her pink gloss. Her hand shakes as she brings the glass to her lips. I wonder if Jake sees it too. I wonder if he, like me, knows this is what happens before she melts down. But maybe not anymore. She said she’s changed, and after seven years without seeing her face, I can’t claim to know shit.
Jake ducks his head and whispers something in her ear, and I know he sees it too—is probably offering to go somewhere and talk with her, if I had to guess. I’ve missed this family and their closeness, the way they can fight like rabid dogs one minute and have each other’s backs the next.