by Ryan, Lexi
She flinches and looks around as if she’s checking to make sure no one’s overheard “Would you be quiet?”
I lower my voice and try again. “Tell me you’re not dating Professor Douche.”
“I’m not sure dating is the right word.”
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 . . .?”
She shoves her hands in the pockets of her coat and increases her pace. “Isn’t it what?” she asks, jaw tight, gaze straight ahead. “It’s not against any official rules, if that’s what you mean.”
Riiiiight. “Then why the secrecy?”
Her shoulders hunch around her ears. “Because it is frowned upon. I’d appreciate it if you kept this between us. People would . . . they’d make assumptions about both of us.”
“Assumptions like he’s taking advantage of you through his position.”
Stopping suddenly, she spins on me, her eyes wide. “No one coerced me into anything. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” My hands curl at my sides, but fuck it. I can’t stand this close to her and keep my hands to myself. I tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear, skimming my fingers over the soft shell. She closes her eyes but doesn’t pull away. “You don’t look like you’re sure of anything, Shayleigh.”
When she lifts her eyes to mine, her expression is one of resigned sadness. “Whether I am or not isn’t your concern anymore.”
I’m going to change that. “You don’t love him.” Maybe I’m reassuring myself. Maybe I’m reminding her.
“I care about him. We care about each other.” She narrows her eyes. “Stop looking at me like I’m some challenge. You only want me because you can’t have me.”
“That’s not even a little true.” I hum. “Wait, before I forget . . .” I pat my pockets before finding what I’m looking for. “I’m supposed to give you this.” I hand her the business card. “One of my teammates on the Demons has a sister who’s a literary agent. She specializes in young adult lit and romance, so assuming you’re still writing that, you should send her an email. Make sure you include his name in the subject line.”
She stares at the business card. “I know this agent. Callie Weiman reps some big names in YA. Last I checked, she wasn’t open to queries.”
“But she’s willing to consider yours.”
She blinks up at me. “Why do you do this?”
“Do what?”
“Just enough to keep me on the hook. Just enough so I can’t ever really let you go.”
The words are a knife to the gut and a balm all at once. I wonder if she realizes she admitted she still has feelings for me. I don’t want to hurt her. I hate knowing that I have. But if there’s any chance for us, I have to try. “What if I don’t want you to let me go? What if I want you to forget your professor and give me a fucking chance?”
She holds my gaze for so long that I almost expect her to agree, but then she takes a step back, emphasizing that distance between us, and releases a breath. “Come on, Easton. Let me show you around campus.”
Shay
Operation Freeze Him Out died before we even started the tour. Easton is connecting me to a top YA agent. It might not amount to anything—nothing matters if the book isn’t good enough—but just the fact that he did it makes those old gooey feelings come back. I was doing a hell of a job trying to turn cool again when, ten minutes into the tour, his daughter called and I watched his face transform as he talked to her. I’ve never doubted that Easton was a good dad, but seeing the love on his face when he spoke with Abi made it impossible to stay irritated with him.
The tour was pretty uneventful from there. Easton didn’t make a pass at me, and I didn’t break down and beg him to stay away so I can ignore the most painful piece of my past. All in all, I’m gonna call it a win.
We were stopped half a dozen times by students who recognized him and wanted an autograph, and Easton handled each one with his signature charm and ease, signing ball caps, scraps of paper, even the shoulder of one girl who confessed before turning away that she was going straight to her tattoo artist to get it inked on her forever.
When I wrapped up the tour back at the library where we started, I thought he’d ask me out again or give me more shit about my relationship with George, but instead, he stared at me for a long time. “Thank you for today, Shayleigh. I wouldn’t have wanted to see this place through anyone else’s eyes.”
And I melted all over again. Because this is Easton, and I’ve always been putty in his hands. The years apart have changed a lot, but apparently not that.
I knock on George’s office door before cracking it enough to stick my head in. “Hey, you.”
George looks up from a stack of papers and grins. “Hello, Shay. Come in. Shut the door behind you.”
I step inside and lean against the door as it clicks closed. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since dinner Sunday night, and I don’t feel any more prepared for the conversation we need to have now than I did then.
“What’s that look about?” George asks. He comes out from behind his desk and takes my purse, tossing it onto a chair before turning back to me.
“What look?” I smile as he slides his hands behind my back, pulling me against him. I blink when I realize . . . George is hard. It’s nothing I haven’t felt before, but George usually refrains from touching me at all on campus. Even this morning’s affection in the library was out of character. He isn’t a public-displays-of-affection kind of guy. He’s certainly not a rub-my-erection-against-you-in-my-office kind of guy.
He tucks my hair behind my ear and drags his fingertips down my neck. “Like you’re worried about something. Did your tour with the football player go okay?”
Swallowing, I nod. “It was fine. I wasn’t thinking about that, actually.”
“Then what?” He lowers his mouth to my neck and flattens me against the door.
He’s definitely hard. And definitely looking to do something about that now. In here.
Earlier in our relationship, I would’ve been turned on by the thought of him touching me in his office, but today, with my mind so tangled up in my future—and, let’s be fair, with Easton—sex in George’s office is the last thing on my mind.
“Tell me what’s bothering you,” he murmurs against my neck, his hands busily unbuttoning my coat.
I bite my lip. I should ask about the ring. I should tell him that Easton kissed me Sunday night. “Did I ever tell you that sometimes I write fiction?”
He pulls back and looks down at me with wide eyes. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned it. That’s great. Have you thought about sending it to literary journals to diversify your CV?”
Of course he’d reduce this confession to its value on my curriculum vitae. It’s the resumé for academics, which we try to make as long as possible by including every accomplishment we’ve ever come by just to prove our worth. “It’s not the kind of thing literary journals would publish.”
“You’re being modest.” His gaze sweeps over my face, lower, settling on the bit of décolletage exposed by my shirt, and I want to smack him for not focusing on the conversation at hand. Doesn’t he understand this is important? “You’re more talented than you think.”
“I’m not being modest. I’m saying it’s not right for a literary journal because it’s not literary. It’s genre fiction. I’ve been writing for years and have a few novels completed.”
“There’s nothing wrong with writing stuff like that for fun.” He lowers his face, kissing the swell of cleavage as he tugs ineffectually at the hem of my pencil skirt.
I brace my palms on his shoulders and gently push him away. “George, I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”
His eyes are hazy with lust, but he takes a deep breath and backs up to his desk, leaning against it an
d folding his arms. “Sorry.” His lips twitch. “Tell me about your genre fiction.”
But I don’t want to. Not when he has that smug look on his face. Not when I know the only words he’ll speak with more derision than “genre fiction” are “romance novels.” I’m not sure if categorizing my books as young adult romance would make them better or worse in his mind. “Never mind.” I grab my purse and slide it onto my shoulder. “I need to get going so I’m not late for Lilly’s practice.”
George’s expression shifts—the smugness gone and replaced by . . . panic? “Shay, I’m sorry. I want to know about your writing.”
I nod. Maybe he does. Maybe he’ll respect what I’ve done since he knows me and my other work. Or maybe he’ll think I’m wasting my time. Either way, I don’t want to be around him right now. “Another day,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “It’s not important.”
But it is. More important than I’ve wanted to admit to myself. So important that I only trusted the secret with Easton, who’s kept it for me all this time. I cringe. I may not know what to call what I have with George and I might be too much of a coward to ask about the ring, but I owe him honesty. “I need to tell you something.”
George tilts his head. “What is it?”
“Sunday night after we had dinner, I went to the bar. Easton was there.”
His face goes slack. Even pales a little. “Okay . . .”
“He kissed me.” I told myself it wasn’t a big deal, but seeing George’s face as I say the words makes me feel like shit. “I didn’t kiss him back. I pushed him away and told him I was seeing someone.” I swallow hard and step toward him, touch his chest. “It won’t happen again, but I wanted to tell you.”
He presses my palm to his chest, then dips his head to kiss me. It’s slow and lingering, and I wait for it to fill me with warmth. It doesn’t. When he pulls away, his eyes are dark. “Did his kiss feel like that?”
“No,” I whisper. Because it didn’t. Easton’s kiss felt like a promise. Like praise and worship. In the two seconds his lips touched mine, I was destroyed and rebuilt. No, George’s kiss feels nothing like Easton’s.
“Good,” he whispers, and I don’t correct him. I can’t bring myself to explain that it’s not good. It’s a mess. Everything’s a mess. “Can you drive back after Lilly’s class tonight? I want you in my bed.”
I wait for the tingle that should shoot through me, for the temptation of George’s bed to make me change my plans. It doesn’t come. Fuck you, Easton. “I really need to work on my revisions. I might be able to get them done early if I put my head down.”
He blows out a breath and straightens. I can practically see him mentally readjusting his expectations. “Early would be great. You could take a break.”
I look around, surveying George’s office. I’ve been teaching at Starling in a temporary position for the last two years, so it’s not like I don’t know what my life will be like if I find a tenure-track job. Teaching, grading, faculty meetings, advising undergrads, and so fucking much committee work. Of that list, the only thing I find rewarding is the actual time in the classroom. I love watching students connect with literature—sometimes for the very first time in their lives. I love taking them by the hand and showing them that even though writing terrifies them, they have the tools they need to write a compelling paper. But the rest? Insert cringe. “I think I need the extra time to explore my options for next year. I’ve been so busy finishing this degree and getting qualified for tenure-track positions that I’m not sure I’ve given enough thought to whether or not that’s what I really want.”
“Shay . . .” He studies me, disappointment creasing his brow. “Don’t let this guy ruin your plans. I know he’s all flash and money, and I’m sure that’s appealing to you after working so hard and earning so little, but don’t let him ruin everything you’ve worked for.” He wraps his hand around my wrist and rubs his thumb against the pulse point. “Don’t let him ruin the few months we have left together.”
“I can’t deny that seeing Easton again is messing with my head.” I wave a hand between our bodies. “Messing with this.”
He nods. “I noticed.”
“And I am sorry about that. But the need to re-examine my career isn’t about Easton. It’s about me.” But maybe I needed Easton to remind me that I’m more than the alphabet soup behind my name, and that I’ve never cared about my career as much as I care about my family.
Easton
May 16th, ten years ago
The beach is a balm to my lonely soul. Always has been. I grew up on the coast of Lake Michigan and spent weekends running barefoot in the surf and high school nights kissing girls on blankets in the sand. Lake Michigan is no Pacific Ocean, but it’s so vast you can’t see anything but water along the horizon. The waves are nothing compared to the monster currents of the Pacific, but they’re there, even if they’re only a few feet high.
As hard as it was for me to leave home when I was drafted by the Demons, I’m grateful I landed by the sea. I walk along the beach every time I need to think. It helps me chill. Helps me organize my thoughts. And tonight, my thoughts are on my other family, the one I left behind when I left Jackson Harbor.
It’s been two years since I’ve seen any of them. I thought I’d visit, but then Mom moved out here to be closer to me, and . . . well, my good intentions weren’t enough to get me back home.
Carter and I haven’t exchanged so much as a text in months. I’ll get a random message from Shay from time to time, but nothing like those damn “Should I sleep with him?” texts she sent me in the middle of the night two years ago. She’s still with Steve, so I guess she’s probably answered that question by now.
If I’m honest with myself, that’s a big part of what keeps me from flying back to Michigan. Every time I think about booking a ticket, I imagine seeing her with him. I know how unfair and unreasonable my jealousy is. She isn’t mine. Never has been. I tell myself it’s easier to stay away, but I think staying away from Shayleigh might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
And this month she’s in Paris for the first time. With her boyfriend, through some program with their college.
I glance at the time on my phone.
She’s nine hours ahead of me, so it’s dinnertime there. Is her boyfriend romancing her in front of the Eiffel Tower? Is he telling her how gorgeous she is as they walk the halls of the Louvre? Does she believe him, or does she still doubt her beauty?
Fuck it.
I unlock my phone and pull up my text app.
Me: How’s Paris?
Shay: Paris is great. Boys are stupid.
If there was any doubt in my mind that I’m a selfish asshole, the big-ass smile those words bring to my face would have confirmed it.
Me: All boys, or one in particular?
Shay: Who breaks up with a girl IN PARIS?
My breath rushes out of me. Fucking Steve. I thought he was supposed to be the smart kid. I should’ve trusted my instincts.
Me: A very, very stupid boy. Are you okay?
Shay: I’m fine. I guess I should’ve seen it coming. We get a free day tomorrow and I had it all worked out. We were going to spend it together, but now he tells me we’re through and he’s going to spend it with Heather. Heather, my roommate. Heather, who was supposedly my FRIEND.
Boys are the worst. And that’s where she went wrong—dating a boy.
Shay: Why couldn’t he have done this before we left? Now I’m on this trip and trying to act like I’m fine. I’ll never forgive him if he ruins Paris for me.
Me: What did you plan for tomorrow?
Shay: Eiffel Tower, of course. BECAUSE ROMANTIC.
Me: Do it anyway.
Shay: I know. I know.
Shay: It’s dumb, but I’ve imagined my first top-of-the-Eiffel-Tower kiss since I was ten.
I grin, and I can’t help but be glad he’s an idiot. This Steve guy has gotten so many of her firsts. He doesn’t deserve that one too.
Apparently I don’t reply fast enough, because her next text comes through before I can.
Shay: Okay. It IS dumb, but I can’t help it.
Me: He’s doesn’t deserve you or that kiss.
Shay: Or maybe I’m a bore who “studies too much and isn’t fun anymore.”
I sincerely hope Heather has crabs and shares them with Steve. It’s the least he deserves.
Me: Nah. I’m right on this one.
Shay: It’s time for our nighttime bus tour, so I have to put my phone away. Please don’t tell my family what happened. I don’t want them to worry about me.
Me: You can always trust me with your secrets.
Shay
I scowl at my phone. Did I think Easton was going to text me all weekend just because I’m heartsick?
He could’ve at least responded to my last message. I sent it this morning because I needed to complain to someone that Heather and Steve sucked face the whole bus tour and then she snuck him into our room after she thought I was asleep. Assholes.
Easton didn’t reply. There’s a time difference to account for, but still. It’s almost six p.m. here, so that means it’s almost nine in the morning in LA.
Easton is right about one thing, though. I should spend my evening doing everything I planned, and while our whole group will go to the Eiffel Tower together next week, I really wanted to go alone first, when I wouldn’t have professors droning on about the architectural wonder of it. I want to enjoy it on a visceral level the first time I go, and I shouldn’t miss out just because Steve decided he’d rather be with Heather.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to feel sorry for myself, so I put on a pair of fitted black jeans, heeled sandals I hope I won’t regret later, and a flowy pink tank top. I do my hair and my makeup, and by the time I’m ready to leave, I feel . . . good. I’ll never have a Playboy Bunny body—and the thirty pounds I’ve gained since starting college aren’t getting me any closer—but when I make an effort instead of throwing my hair in a sloppy bun and pulling on the nearest T-shirt, I don’t think I look half bad.