by Ryan, Lexi
She blows out a breath. “Okay. I’m thinking that you swore you want nothing to do with Easton, but as soon as he’s back in town, you break up with your secret boyfriend. Meanwhile, Easton is everywhere—at brunch, at the bar, even taking a job at your college. And your reaction to a fight with him is to have some against-the-wall sex. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“It tells me I’m a mess and that the sixteen-year-old pathetic crush part of my brain hasn’t been completely overridden yet.”
“Or . . . maybe you still have feelings for him.”
I might always love him. “I didn’t break up with George so I could date Easton.”
“But do you want to?”
“Date him?” My laugh sounds a little crazed. “Nothing I want from Easton could ever be that simple, but I think for a minute tonight maybe I believed we could make it work. But then Scarlett showed up, and I flipped out.”
Teagan stands and offers me her hand. “Another sleepover?”
“Is Carter working?”
“No, he’s just meeting some friends at the bar. He’ll be back soon.”
I shake my head. I don’t want my brother guessing at how messed up I am right now, not with his relationship with Easton and history of protectiveness. “I think I’ll go home. It’s been a long day, and I fly out to Oklahoma tomorrow for my Monday interview.”
“Shit, I forgot about that. You’re not going to cancel?”
“I don’t know what I want to do yet, so it would be silly to shut down my options.” I guess this means I won’t see Easton until after he comes back with his daughter and moves in. I force a smile. “And anyway, time away is probably good. I need to figure out how to apologize to Easton for Hulking out on him tonight.”
And I need to figure out how I feel. Because when I got that condom from the desk, I thought maybe I could try with him, and that confidence fizzled away when I heard Scarlett’s name. I need to figure out what exactly I want from him, and right now I’m so scared to feel these old desires that I’m not sure I can trust my judgment.
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 doi
ng 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.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just . . . I just . . .”
He sinks down with me. When I plop a pile of pieces onto the plate, he grabs my hand. “Were you bringing those to me?”
“Yeah.” I take a breath. “They were for you and Abi.”
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.”
They don’t come. Instead, my gaze is fixed on his bare chest and the sweat rolling between his pecs and over his washboard stomach. Professional sports do amazing things to a man’s body, and as I’m acquainted with every inch of this one, I can attest that the benefits go far beyond the aesthetic.
“Shay, my eyes are up here.” Scowling, I lift my gaze to meet his. He laughs. “Want to see the house?”
“Um, your . . . girlfriend is there.” I doubt she’s a girlfriend per se, but referring to her as his latest screw seems rude.
“My who now?”
God, I’m such an idiot. After the way I treated him, he certainly shouldn’t be waiting around for me, but she doesn’t even look familiar. Is she from around here? Or did he bring her from L.A.? “Blonde, perky boobs.” I hold up a pinkie. “About this big.”
“Are you talking about Tori?”
I return to my cookie retrieval. “Don’t know. Didn’t get her name. She just answered your door.”
“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.
“Oh.” I shrug. “Your nanny, then. My mistake, but I’m sure people make it all the time.”
“Since she’s barely twenty years old. I would hope not.”
My eyes flick up to meet his. “I was twenty when we were in Paris.”
He rocks back on his heels with a deep breath, then pushes himself to standing. Because I’m a bitch. Obviously. Shit.
Guilt washes over me. I abandon the cookies and stand. “I ruin everything. I was coming to apologize.”
He arches a brow. “Really. And what were you going to apologize for?”
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 swallow. And here I am, making more assumptions. “Fair enough.”
He nods toward the house. “Want to come inside? I could make you some coffee and . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, and the movement does such good things for his pecs and biceps. Is he intentionally trying to use his body against me? He immediately knocks down that theory. “Abi’s home. You could meet her. If . . . if you wanted.”
There’s something about seeing him like this that gets to me. He’s not exactly insecure but more guarded and hopeful, and I realize I’m nodding.
He beams and takes the tray of broken cookies before striding past me and up the steps to his house. I follow, half convinced I’m making a terrible mistake.
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.”
I hear Easton’s quiet chuckle. “She’s not been here before, Tori.” He takes the tray of broken cookies from me and hands it to Tori. “We had a cookie accident outside, but no one was hurt. Can you take care of that for me? I’m just gonna show Shay around.”
“Okay! Abi’s had breakfast and now she’s upstairs organizing her makeup in her bathroom.”
Easton grins. “Awesome.”
He grabs my hand, and the contact sends such a shock of warmth through me that I simultaneously want to yank my hand away and curl into him. My body hasn’t gotten the memo that last Saturday was a blip and Easton and I aren’t happening again.
It’s so scary to have such a strong reaction to him. If I’d been asked six months ago, I’d have said I was over him, or as over him as I’d ever be. I think you call that “willfully ignoran
t.” It’s just too hard to get over Easton. Maybe I’m incapable on a cellular level.
“I promise I’ll get you that coffee in a minute,” he says, tugging me toward the stairs. “I want you to meet Abi first.”
The pride on his face makes my ovaries explode, and I know in that moment that any bitterness or resentment I thought I felt toward his life in L.A. doesn’t apply to his daughter. I know it doesn’t matter that Scarlett lied. It doesn’t matter that Abi shares none of his DNA, because she is his. In every way that counts, she’s his daughter.
I follow him up the polished wood stairs. I love how warm this house feels. It’s not a marble showplace where everything is intended to dazzle and flaunt his wealth. It’s his home—where his daughter will run and play and hang out with her friends. This is where she’ll grow up and know that no matter what drama happens in the world beyond, she’s always safe and loved when she’s inside these walls. This will be his safe place too. The start of his new life.
At the top of the stairs, he turns to the right and knocks twice on the wooden door before pushing it open. “Abi?”
“I’m in my bathroom,” she calls.
He gestures into the room, and I follow him inside. His daughter’s space is decked out with white furniture and a mermaid bedspread topped off with sequin pillows. There’s still a pile of boxes stacked against the wall and a few others sitting open in random spots on the floor, but the room already hints at the personality of its new occupant. Mermaids, sequins, teal and turquoise everything. The two tall, coordinating bookshelves are empty, but I smile at them. Looks like Easton has a reader on his hands.
I follow him into the attached bathroom and spot Abi’s long red ponytail. She’s sitting at the small white vanity with an oval mirror and a high-end spa’s worth of cosmetics and polishes in front of her.
“I’m organizing my nail polish by color,” she says. “That way I won’t buy more of a shade before the last one is gone.”