If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Shay

Twelve-and-a-half years later

Jackson family brunch has never been a relaxing affair. Every single one of my five brothers has

managed to fall into a committed relationship in the last three years. Add in my two nieces and soon-to-

be nephew, and our numbers have more than doubled. There are too many of us for even the simplest

meal to be anything short of chaotic. And I love it.

But today, I’m grasping for my typical contented family-time happiness and coming up short.

Easton Connor is back in town and going to be in my personal space any second now. Well, not my

personal space personal space—not like touching me. But in this kitchen. Sharing a meal with me—

with us—for the first time since my father’s funeral. Not only will I have to face him, I’ll have to talk to him. I’ll have to play nice, because no one knows what happened between us. This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

If I have my way, they never will. I won’t let Easton ruin my day.

When the doorbell rings, my body locks up and the crowd clears out of the kitchen, leaving me

blessedly alone for a moment before what feels like an impending apocalypse.

“About time you made it home for a family brunch,” Carter says at the front door.

Easton’s deep chuckle is warm and familiar, like fingertips running up my spine, like hot breath in my

ear . . . like stolen kisses and my first shot of tequila.

I reach for the coffee carafe, only to find it empty. Everyone assumes that the Jacksons—craft beer

connoisseurs that we are—love nothing more than we love beer. They assume wrong. In my family,

coffee ranks high above even our favorite brews.

I grind some beans and dump them into the coffee filter. It’s a three-cup-minimum day. I’ve been

working nonstop between finishing my dissertation, keeping up with the four classes I teach at Starling

University, and job hunting. The stress is finally catching up to me, and there’s never enough sleep or

enough coffee.

“East!” Brayden calls. I hear him jog down the last few steps and consider that perhaps Easton is the

miracle worker he was deemed his second year in the NFL, because I didn’t think anybody but Molly

and Noah could pull Brayden away from work that quickly. “Congrats on the retirement! How’s it

going?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to my family ooh and aww over him. Easton and Carter may have

been the closest growing up, but Easton was friends with all my brothers, and he’s Jackson Harbor’s

only claim to fame. Everyone’s buzzing about him moving back home.

Tuning out the conversation coming from the front of the house, I focus on the coffee dripping all too

slowly into the pot when every instinct screams at me to run to the bathroom and check my

appearance. I changed three times this morning before making myself put on my favorite stretchy jeans

and a Jackson Brews T-shirt. Because nothing says “I don’t care that you broke my heart” like wearing

the exact same outfit I do behind the bar at our family’s brewpub.

“Hey, pretty,” Teagan says, wandering in from the living room.

“Morning, beautiful.” I turn away from the coffee pot to smile at my best friend. Teagan looks stunning

today, as usual. Her dark hair is pulled off her face, and she’s rocking a sweater dress that shows off

her curves. I’ll be shocked if Carter is able to keep his hands off her—not that he typically bothers

trying. He’s a fool in love.

“You okay?” she asks.

I nod, then cut my eyes toward the front of the house. “They’re acting like a bunch of puppies running

to greet their master.”

She laughs. “But are you okay?”

My history with Easton is a secret, but when I found out he was coming to town, Teagan saw the panic

in my eyes. I admitted I used to have a thing for Easton. She prodded for more information, but when it

comes to Easton, I’m a vault. “I’m fine.” I smile, but judging by the snort of laughter that slips from her

lips in response, it’s not convincing.

She opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of champagne. “Seems like a good day for mimosas. Want

one?”

Carter’s laughing at something Easton said. Why didn’t I just come up with an excuse to miss this

morning? I’m staring down the barrel of my dissertation defense and have a pile of revisions I need to

work through in the next two months, never mind the midterm essays I haven’t graded yet. No one

would’ve held my absence against me.

I wave her off. “I’m good with coffee.”

She hums and grabs some champagne glasses from the cabinet.

I’m urging the coffee to brew faster and doing a pretty decent job ignoring the conversation at the front

of the house when I hear Easton ask, “Is Shay here?”

The words are like a pair of jumper cables to my heart. Does he really care, or is he just being polite?

“She’s in the kitchen making coffee,” Carter says.

“Of course she is.” Easton chuckles. God, that laugh. It transports me to another time. If I close my

eyes, I’m in his bed in Paris, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the dusk beyond the window, his smell all over

me.

I draw in a breath, and when I open my eyes, he’s standing in front of me—the man I once loved so

desperately, the only guy to ever break my heart.

Easton’s eyes go wide, and his jaw slackens as he takes me in. His eyes skim over me, from my dark

ponytail down to my beaten-up black Chuck Taylors then back up. “Shayleigh Jackson, what a sight for

sore eyes.”

“Hey, East.”

Teagan nudges my arm, then shoves a glass of champagne into my hand. Because, obviously, she’s

the best friend ever and knows me better than I know myself. “We’re out of OJ,” she says brightly.

I take a sip of the champagne and give Easton a small smile.

“You look . . .” he starts.

I arch a brow, waiting for him to finish that sentence. There are many directions he could go with this. A

polite “great” would work. Or maybe the healthy muscle tone I’ve gained since I last saw him calls for

“incredible.” I really hope he doesn’t say “all grown up” or any shit like that. I can’t be held responsible

for what my fists will do if he treats me like a little girl.

Carter’s found the champagne, and he offers Easton a glass.

East nods his thanks before turning back to me. “You look well,” he says softly. Well. How . . . clinical.

And somewhere in my chest, the remaining kernel of the girl I was winces. That girl wished every day

that she could be thin, that she could walk into a room and drop jaws, that she could be more than “the

smart girl.” The idea that she still wouldn’t be that even if she did lose the weight was a fear she didn’t

even admit to herself.

But that girl didn’t know who she was. And this girl—this woman—does. So I look him over brazenly,

taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the corded muscles of his arms, the way his L.A. Demons shirt

stretches across his chest, and, finally, the subtle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “So do you.” I tap

my glass to his, but I don’t take another drink. Despite Teagan’s good intentions, I need to keep my wits

about me today.

And for the last two months, I’ve anticipated his return with a mix of dread and curiosity. I feel more

than a little guilty about the number of times his impending return has intruded in my thoughts during

my scarce alone time with secret kind-of-boyfriend, George. I wonder if I would’ve even gone home

with George that first time if I hadn’t learned Easton was coming.

And I can’t help but be grateful that I did. It’s better that I’m not single.

I place my champagne flute on the counter and trade it for a mug full of coffee.

When it comes to Easton Connor, I cannot be trusted.