by Ryan, Lexi
Decent enough. Nah, I’m not gonna step aside for decent enough. “He can’t be that good if she hasn’t brought him around.”
Carter freezes then slowly reracks the barbell before turning to me. “Why?”
His glare could knock a lesser man over, but I just shrug. “Because if he’s not the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to her, if he doesn’t treat her like an absolute goddess, I’m going to do everything in my power to convince her she should be with me and not him.”
The ire in his eyes morphs into shock. “Excuse me?”
“Come on, Carter. You know I’ve had a thing for Shay since she was sixteen.”
“Since you were a fucking college student drooling over my baby sister. Yeah, I remember.”
I nod to the barbell in the rack. He has one hand wrapped around the knurling, squeezing like I imagine he’d like to do to my neck. “You gonna let me squat that or just grope it all day?” He scowls, but I grin slowly. “She’s not a baby anymore, and you don’t fucking scare me.”
“She’s not like the girls you’re used to, East.” He steps away from the rack and helps me add another bumper plate to each side. “If you’re hoping to fuck her and walk away, save yourself the beating, because I won’t let that happen.”
I duck under the barbell, position it on my shoulders, and walk it off the rack. “Who said I want to walk away?”
“Are you serious right now?”
“I have feelings for her, Carter. Deal with it.” I rep out a set of five and rerack the weight.
When I turn back to him, he’s studying me. His eyes flash but he sighs. He scans the gym around us before stepping closer to me. “If you hurt her—if you make my sister cry one fucking tear—I’ll punch you in the nuts so hard you’ll feel them when you gargle. You get me?”
If I hurt her? Too late for that. But I smile and smack Carter on the shoulder. “She’s grown, C. Thirty, last I checked. I don’t think she needs her brothers to play guard dog anymore.” And the last thing I’m going to do is hurt her again.
Shay
“We’ll fly you in on that Thursday morning, and the interview will take place that afternoon. I’ll make sure they give you early check-in at your hotel. That way you don’t have to walk into the interview straight from such a long flight,” Sally says. She’s the administrative assistant for the English department at Emmitson University, and she’s been the point person for every portion of my application process, including the virtual class visit the hiring committee did with my American lit class last week. Apparently they liked what they saw, because now they want to fly me out for an in-person interview—the final step in the hiring process.
“That sounds good,” I say.
“Would you be okay with one of our graduate students picking you up at the airport?”
“Absolutely.” This isn’t the first time I’ve scheduled a flight to L.A., but it’ll be the first time I actually go. Easton lived there for thirteen years, but only next month, when he’s officially moved back to Jackson Harbor, will I actually make the trip. I swallow a bubble of hysteria.
“Everyone’s looking forward to meeting you, Shayleigh, myself included. You’ve been such a pleasure to work with through this process.”
“Thank you so much, Sally.”
“Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions or need to make any adjustments to your travel plans.”
We say our goodbyes, and I put down my cell phone and take a deep breath. Then another. If I were home, I’d probably go take a nap, which is exactly why I’m working in Jake’s old apartment above Jackson Brews. There’s a bed here, but since I know how often my brothers sneak up here with their respective girlfriends/fiancées/wives, I find any comfort it might offer pretty easy to resist.
I’m two months away from defending my dissertation and finishing up a twelve-year stint in higher education. But every time I get a call for an interview for a tenure-track position, I wince. I’ve worked my ass off for this—for the alphabet soup behind my name and the chance to get tenure and teach something more mentally stimulating than freshman comp. All the dissertation research killed something inside me, so I applied almost exclusively at small colleges with heavier teaching loads and smaller publishing expectations. I don’t want the pressure of publishing articles every semester—of finding something new to say in a field already crowded with voices. But after teaching for the last few years and confronting the reality of students caring more about grades than knowledge, even the classroom has begun to lose its appeal. And the hard truth is that I’ll probably need to move across the country if I want a good job in my field. The most promising jobs are in California, Maine, and Oklahoma.
Ugh.
My stomach hurts.
I’m growing more and more obsessed with the possibility that this degree was a giant waste of time. I’m either going to have to admit that I don’t actually want the prize that’s at the end of this finish line or strap myself to a job that might just be okay in a place that might make me miserable.
The sound of the rattling doorknob draws my attention away from my computer, and I look up to see Easton pushing into the apartment. “Hey, beautiful.”
“I should’ve locked the door,” I mutter.
He places two glasses on the table and a pitcher of beer, then flips around the chair opposite me and straddles it. “How’s your day been?”
I roll my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Jake said you need to take a break.” He lifts the pitcher and carefully pours. “Sent me to remind you.”
His long-sleeved T-shirt stretches tight across his chest, making it difficult to keep my eyes on my laptop, where they belong. “I’m fine, but thanks anyway.”
“What’s got you so tied up in knots?”
I frown. “Who says I’m tied in knots?”
He points to the space between his eyebrows. “Right here. It gives you away every time. You get this little indentation there when you’re trying to figure out a particularly vexing problem.”
I snort. “Maybe I’m just not as young as I used to be and need some Botox.”
“You don’t need shit.” He nods to my computer. “Is it your book? Do you need to brainstorm a plot problem?”
My eyes go wide, and I look over his shoulder to make sure no one has followed him up here. “Would you shut up?”
He folds his arms on the back of the chair, frowning. “Why?”
“I haven’t told anyone about the books.”
“Books. Plural.” He grins like I just told him I can secretly fly. “You’ve been busy.”
I roll my eyes, sighing. “Well, it’s been a lot of years, so yeah . . .”
“And you did tell someone. You told me.”
I did. Somehow, I admitted my deepest secret—my secret hope—to Easton years ago. In my defense, it was a post-coital confession, and he’d just given me a series of mind-blowing orgasms that loosened my tongue and made me feel brave and invincible. He made me feel like I could have things I never believed possible. Things like him. “It’s not a thing, so please don’t go yapping about it.”
“Not a thing, and yet somehow while finishing a PhD, teaching a full course load at Starling, and being the perfect daughter, sister, aunt, and friend, you’ve managed to go from a few chapters on a book to books—plural.”
“It’s not anything. Just . . .” I shrug. Just a thing I want too much to pursue. Just a dream that’s so much part of my soul that I don’t know if I could handle the blow of inevitable rejection.
“Just what?” he asks, propping his chin on his hands. “Just a lifelong passion?” He smiles, all angelic and shit, but I know better.
“Just a hobby,” I say, even though the words feel like a betrayal to some growing seed buried deep inside me.
He tilts his head to one side, then the other, as if he’s trying to use the light to better see through my bullshit. “For such a confident woman, you sure are scared.”
I shut my la
ptop. “What do you need, Easton?”
“A tour.”
“What?”
“The Starling football program offered me the position as their quarterback coach. The campus has changed a lot since I went there, so I want to get a feel for it before I make a decision.”
Easton. Living in Jackson Harbor, coming to Jackson family brunch, hanging at Jackson Brews, and working at Starling, where I spend my weekdays. Is he trying to force me into an emotional meltdown? Hell, maybe it’s good that my career trajectory is about to corner me into a move. That might be the only way to avoid him. “I’m sure the football people would be happy to take you on a tour. I don’t know anything about that side of campus.”
“And they don’t know anything about your side of campus, but I want to get a feel for the whole thing.”
I grunt. “You’re telling me the layout of the English department will be integral in your decision to coach a bunch of football players?”
He sips his beer, watching me.
Sighing, I try again. “The people in admissions get paid to give tours. The lovely folks in fundraising and alumni engagement would probably carry you through campus on a golden sedan chair. The administration would probably make the college president himself take you on the damn tour if they thought you’d take the position.”
He nods. “You’re probably right.”
Thank you. I turn my attention back to my laptop, still ignoring the beer he poured me. It doesn’t even appeal to me right now, which is good, since I’m so tired that I’d probably pass out after drinking half of it. I shouldn’t have worked through my spring break. I can’t afford to burn out right before the finish line. “So . . . good luck with that. I’ll see you around.”
I can feel his gaze on me. Hungry and intense. By the way he’s devouring me with his eyes, you’d think I was in a slinky formal gown and not the clothes I wore on my afternoon run. “You’re right,” he says, “but I still want you to do the tour.”
I refuse to look away from my screen and reread an email about a department meeting. “It’s nice to want things.”
“Which is why I mentioned it in my meeting this morning. I said Shayleigh Jackson is an old family friend and I’d love for her to show me around the liberal arts side of campus.” When I finally lift my eyes, he’s grinning like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and not like a grown man cornering me into spending time with him. “I guess you’ll get a call about it soon.”
“I guess I will,” I say tightly.
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.”
Football isn’t for everyone, and hell, I’ve had enough concussions that I’m legitimately concerned about the future of my brain. Nobody wants to end up in a nursing home, drooling into their Jell-O before the age of fifty. And yet I bet George’s idea of “fun” is about as stimulating as watching paint dry.
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.”
I don’t miss the way she tenses a fraction at those words. “I can’t tonight. I promised Lilly I’d take her to gymnastics and watch her new bar routine.”
“Come by my office after you’re done giving your tour, then.” He winks at her then turns to go, not bothering to say goodbye to either of us.
Dude is so slimy I want a shower. “So that’s the chair of your dissertation committee,” I say when he’s pushing out of the library.
“Yep.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
“Did you have any say in who you got to work with?”
She frowns. “Of course.”
“And you chose him?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m lucky to have the opportunity to work with Dr. Alby. He’s a fantastic mentor.”
“He doesn’t give you a creeper vibe?”
Her eyes flare. “George is a good guy. Don’t be a dick.” She looks at her watch pointedly and gives me a plastic smile. “I don’t have much time, and my boss would kill me if I didn’t give you that tour you want so badly, so we’d better get moving.” She turns and walks toward the exit with the long strides of a woman on a mission. The view from back here isn’t bad at all, but I’m disturbed enough by the bad vibes from Professor Douche that I’m almost too distracted to appreciate it.
I’m quiet while I follow her out of the library. The sidewalks that were crowded with students ten minutes ago have cleared out, and with two long strides, I’ve caught up to her and am walking by her side. “You two are . . . interesting.”
She meets my eyes. “What’s interesting?”
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?”