If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 11

Easton

“Did you know your sister is seeing someone?” I ask Carter as he finishes his last set of squats Monday morning.

He grunts. “I think there’s a guy from school she goes out with sometimes. Nothing serious, though.”

“Does he make her happy?”

“Never met the guy. She doesn’t really talk about him, but I assume he’s decent enough.”

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 laptop. “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.