If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

Easton

“The master looks right out to Lake Michigan.” At the top of the stairs, Ellie turns left and opens a set of

double doors that lead into the master bedroom of what I hope will be my future home. She strides in,

her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

I turn to follow, and the view stops me in my tracks. The lake stretches for miles, and the rippling water

glitters like diamonds in the sunset.

I would’ve thought I’d become accustomed to views like this. After thirteen years in the NFL, the best

has become my new normal. Hell, I’ve owned my penthouse in Laguna Beach for ten years, and its

view of the Pacific is hands-down more impressive than this. But I’m speechless nonetheless.

Something about being back in Jackson Harbor makes the last thirteen years go away. Once again, I’m

just the son of a single mom, scraping by on next to nothing. Once again, I’m a kid who’s grateful he

has football and a best friend with the coolest family in the world.

Once, a house like this was only a dream, and now I’m a couple of signatures from grabbing it for

myself—free and clear.

“Is it okay?” Ellie asks, misinterpreting my silence for disapproval.

Nodding, I cross the room to stand by the windows. I’ve been waiting for something like this to come on

the market, and came to town just to see it before finalizing my offer. “No, it’s great.” I flash her a smile

over my shoulder. “Thanks for catching it for me.”

She beams. “That’s my job.”

“There are other bedrooms on this floor?”

“Yes. It’s a split floor plan up here. The master’s on this side, and then there’s an office between you

and the other bedrooms.” She nods toward the door. “Let me show you the one I think your daughter

would love.”

I follow her down the hall, stopping along the way to admire the massive office with its wall of walnut

built-ins. I love all the wood tones in this house, from the trim to the timber beams in the family room

downstairs. Right before Scarlett finally moved out, she remodeled my Laguna home into a

monochromatic wash of white and gray. It felt like a high-end hotel. This feels like home.

“Big closets,” Ellie says when I follow her into the room at the end of the hall. “And she might not care

about that now, but there’s a good chance she will when she gets older.”

I grunt. Abigail might only be nine, but she already cares about clothes more than I ever have. The

room is a good size, and I can already picture where I’ll put her bed, a desk, and a small TV area with

her fuzzy pink beanbag chairs. It might not have the massive windows that the master has, but it does

overlook the water.

“She’ll love it.” I swallow, hoping I’m right. I need to get her out of L.A. The media circus that’s rained

down on us since her mom’s follow-up tell-all interview has been intense and worse than anything

we’ve had to deal with before. Abi wants it to end, but like any nine-year-old would be, she’s nervous

about leaving all her friends.

“I’m sure it’s scary,” Ellie says softly, “picking up your whole life and moving here. But there’s nowhere

I’d rather raise a family.”

Grinning, I look pointedly at the ring on her finger and grab the opportunity to change the subject with

both hands. “Are you and Levi planning a family?”

Her cheeks bloom red. “Eventually. We’re not in any hurry.”

“It’s hard for me to imagine that little punk settling down. He was always up to something.” I smile,

memories filling my head.

“He’s changed a lot since you moved away.” She studies me for a long beat before adding, “Everyone

has.”

Hell, don’t I know it. “You’re friends with Shay?”

She nods. “I’m not as close to her as Teagan is, but we’re friends. We all try to get together for girls’

night at least once a month—though now it’s more like quarterly. Everyone’s so busy. But Shay’s been

finishing up her dissertation. We have to drag her out of the house every so often so she doesn’t work

herself into the ground.” She cocks her head to the side and says, “But I thought it was Carter you were

so close to.”

Busted. “I was close to the whole family. They treated me like one of their own.”

“Of course they did.”

“There’s room for everyone,” we say in unison, reciting what seems to be the Jackson family creed.

“They were there for me through some tough times too.” She scans the empty room, but I get the

impression she’s really just stuck in her memories.

“Carter was my best friend growing up.” I shove my hands in my pockets and make a show of checking

the closet. I’ve already had a private inspector go through the house, and I knew I’d buy it before I flew

here to see it. I just wanted to make sure it felt right before I committed. Maybe I also wanted to see

Shay before I’m busy settling Abigail into Jackson Harbor.

And didn’t that go great?

“And you and Shay . . .?” Ellie asks.

I arch a brow, waiting for her to finish that sentence and wondering how close she really is with the

Jackson sister.

She shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m being unprofessional. Your history with her is none of my business.”

Did Shay say something? I bite back the question. It won’t do anything but make me sound like an

insecure teenager. But damn, where Shay’s concerned, that’s how I feel.

I glance around the room again. “So let’s do some paperwork and make this official.”

Shay

“Are you okay?”

Jerking out of my thoughts, I realize my date is staring at me, his deep brown eyes crinkled in the

corners. “I’m fine. Why?”

“You’ve been poking at that pasta for ten minutes.” George Alby flashes me his panty-melting bearded

smile. His signature charm only compounds my guilt. “You just seem distracted. Is it your defense?

Because you have nothing to worry about. Hammer out those revisions, and you’ll have a dissertation

worth publishing.”

“It’s not that.” After I failed spectacularly at quieting my brain enough to nap, George and I decided to

meet for dinner at our favorite diner. The place is just off the interstate in a tiny town halfway between

Grand Rapids and Jackson Harbor. These are usually my favorite nights with him—when we can be in

public without hiding our relationship. Tonight, I’ve barely touched my food, and his plate is clear. I’m

proving to be a crappy date.

George nudges his empty plate to the side and folds his arms on the table. “So tell me what it is.” He

looks around the restaurant in amusement. “Is this a breakup dinner?”

I gape. “No, of course not! Why would you even think that?”

“It’s just a matter of time, isn’t it?” An insecure smile flashes across his ruggedly handsome features,

and my heart tugs. “Until one of these universities on the other side of the country drags you away from

me?”

I don’t want to move across the country. But is that because I don’t want to leave George, or because I

don’t want to leave my family? He and I have never set out to have something long-term. I’m not even

sure what this thing is between us. He’s more than my fuck buddy—and I’m pretty sure that label would

offend him down to his bones—but he’s not quite my boyfriend either. And the fact that we agreed from

the beginning to keep this relationship a secret hasn’t given us any reason to iron out what we are to

each other.

I blow out a breath. “I’m sorry I’m distracted. It’s not about you.”

“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.