If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 13

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 and 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.