If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan) novel Chapter 15

We hardly talk for the next hour as we take in the view, but it’s not an awkward silence. Not for me, at least. For me, it’s just an awed reverence for the moment as I try to memorize every detail—the sun sinking into the Parisian horizon, the feel of his fingers threaded through mine, and the thrill of everything below looking so small. It’s crowded up here, but I barely notice anyone else, and when he pulls my back to his front, we might as well be the only two people in the world.

“Shay? Shayleigh, are you okay?”

I turn and blink at Steve.

His eyes go wide when he sees Easton. “Are you . . . You aren’t really . . . I mean, you can’t be . . .”

Easton smiles easily as he faces Steve. He extends a hand while keeping one arm around my waist. “Easton Connor. Nice to meet you.”

Steve blinks at me and then at Easton. “Holy shit. I knew you two texted sometimes, but I didn’t know . . .” His eyes dart back and forth between us like he’s trying to solve some complicated mathematical equation. And I get it. Of all the girls Easton could choose to have in his arms in Paris, I don’t fit. I’m just a chubby, awkward nerd girl who followed him around when I was a kid. I’m not anything like what he deserves—not like the popstar who’s been hanging on his arm at L.A. bars. I’m just . . . me. Which is why I know tonight is special. It’s why I know this moment is a singular gift and not the beginning of something new.

Easton pulls me closer to his side. “And your name?”

“I’m . . . uh, I’m Steve.”

At first, I wonder if Easton will remember. Steve’s been a huge part of my life during the last two and a half years, but Easton’s never even met him. I see the moment the name clicks into place for him, see the recognition in his eyes as they go wide. “Ah. I see.”

“I’m such a big fan. Huge. I can’t even believe I’m meeting you right now.”

Part of me finds a moderate amount of satisfaction in his stammering, but the rest of me just wants him to leave so I can return to my happy bubble—my dreamy evening with Easton.

“It’s always good to meet a fan,” Easton says with a nod. “Have a nice night.” He leads me away, dropping his arm from around my waist only to take my hand again.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

I shrug. “For making it look like we’re together. For making him wonder if maybe he gave up a good thing.”

He stops and turns to me, cupping my face in both of his hands. “If and maybe?” He shakes his head. “Shay, he’s an absolute fool for letting you go. And a bigger fool if he had to see me with you to figure that out.”

I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

He narrows his eyes. “But you don’t believe it, do you? You don’t realize that you deserve better than some prick who couldn’t even be bothered to wait until you were ready and tried to pressure you into having sex with him.”

I blink at him. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do. I had to use all my restraint not to fly home and give him a piece of my mind.” He turns in the direction Steve left, glaring. “I’m afraid to ask what happened.”

I laugh. “I was with him for two and a half years. What do you think happened?”

He releases a low growl and rolls his shoulders back, but I squeeze his wrist. I don’t want him to pummel poor Steve.

“It didn’t happen that week. He waited until I was ready.” I tug on Easton’s arm until he meets my eyes again. “Please get that look off your face.”

“What look?”

“That big-brother protective look. Stop. We’re in Paris. Watching you get arrested for homicide would really put a damper on an otherwise lovely evening.”

His lips twitch. “You think that’s my big-brother look?”

“Isn’t it? You’re as bad as Carter, trying to scare off any guy who looks at me.” I blow out a breath. “It’s no wonder you two get along so well. You both wanted me to be a virgin forever.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “I . . . never said I wanted that.”

My cheeks heat, and I really want to change the subject. I turn away, shivering a little. The sun has set, and the air’s cooled.

Then Easton’s behind me, holding me, his warmth seeping into my back. “Trust me, Shay. I’ve never thought of you as a little sister.” He blows out a breath, and I feel it against my ear. “I want to kiss you again.”

My stomach twists. He’s only here because he hated the idea of Steve ruining my trip. He’s swooping in to play the hero, but that doesn’t make this real. I crane my neck to see his face. “Don’t ruin this with your pity kisses, East.”

He spins me in his arms and tilts my face up with one big hand. His eyes are darker than before, his lips parted. I want to feel those lips again. “Is that what you think this is? Even when I said it wasn’t? Is that what you thought it was about when I touched you on New Year’s Eve?”

My face burns. We’ve never talked about that night.

“I have wanted to kiss you for so long.” His gaze dips to my mouth then down to my cleavage, and I feel hot all over. “Carter gave me hell about it because he could see it on my face, but you were too young and I had to resist. Until I had you in my arms and I couldn’t say no.”

My heart is beating so fast that I feel like I ran the stairs up here. “I’m not too young now.”

His nostrils flare. “I know.”

Kiss me. Do it now. I might beg. Instead, I ask, “What’s next?”

Some of the darkness lifts from his eyes. “Next, you let me take you to dinner.”

Easton

Shay’s lipstick marks her wineglass, making it impossible to focus on my food. I can’t think of anything but those lips and the way she moaned into my mouth when I kissed her.

I forgot how it feels to be close to Shay—how she calms my anxiety and simultaneously ties me up into knots of desire.

She’s just heartbroken and on the rebound.

She’s been raving about Paris since we sat down, chattering about everything she’s seen in the last few days and what she’ll see in the upcoming weeks. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s equal parts nerves and sincere enthusiasm that has her cheeks pink and her words running into each other like a traffic jam.

“But what about you?” I ask. “How’s college? What’s your life like?”

She reaches for her wine and swirls it in her glass. She’s old enough to drink in France, but she’s only had a few sips. “I’m not like you, East. I’m just an average girl with an average life.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth. You’re so damn smart and talented. Everything you do is interesting, and I hate that he made you question it even for a minute.”

“I’m not questioning it right now,” she says, peeking up at me through her lashes. “What about you? I thought you were dating that pop star.”

I put down my fork and take a long sip of my wine. “Scarlett,” I say. There’s not enough wine in this bottle to truly prepare me to talk about Scarlett Lashenta. “I was. For a while.”

“And . . .?”

Where do I start? With Scarlett’s constant drinking? With her battle with addiction that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to win? With the way everything about her life is dramatic and she prefers it that way? “We split up, but you probably already know that.”

“I try not to read the gossip sites,” she says, but her blush turns her cheeks a vibrant pink and gives her away. “Though sometimes it’s hard to resist.”

I laugh. “I meant that I thought you’d have figured that out, because I wouldn’t have kissed you otherwise.”

Her cheeks blaze a darker shade of pink. “Oh. Right.”

I huff out a breath. “This is totally unfair, you know. You can log on to Perez Hilton every time you want an update on my life, but how am I supposed to know what’s going on with you? You don’t even post on Facebook.”

“I mean, phones still work, last I checked? And it’s not like we haven’t talked at all since you moved away.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you and want to know what you’re up to without interfering with your life.” My smile falls away. “I was serious when I told you I didn’t want you changing your plans for me. I couldn’t let you switch to UCLA when you’d never mentioned the school before. You’re living your dreams.”

“I wouldn’t have actually . . .” She blows out a breath and studies me. The silence seems to pulse between us. “Maybe I would have, and maybe it’s good that you didn’t let me.”

But how tempting was it? I could picture her at UCLA, taking classes and visiting me at the Demons’ training facility, coming home to me at night. But how many opportunities was she going to miss? And what about all the days I traveled with the team? I didn’t have any right to fuck with her life like that. Her brothers would’ve hated me for it. I would’ve hated myself. “How’s your family?”

She nudges her food around on her plate again. “Dad’s sick.”

“Shit.” I sit back. It’s hard to imagine Frank Jackson sick. He’s nothing but a pillar of strength and stability in my mind. “Like, the flu or what?”

She shakes her head. “Like, sick sick. He . . .” She draws in a ragged breath, as if she needs to fortify herself, and I know what’s coming. “Cancer.”

That news is a punch in the gut. Frank Jackson was such an important part of my childhood. He was like a father to me. He was the example of a father that my own dad never bothered to stick around and be. “Is it bad?” I know it’s a ridiculous question. If it weren’t bad, she wouldn’t look like the weight of the news was crushing her. I’m just not sure how else to ask it.

“He’s fighting it.” The words sound sticky, as if she has to shove them out around tears she’s too stubborn to shed. “But some days, I’m not sure he’s going to win.”

“I’m so sorry, Shay. I know how close your family is. This must be really hard.”

“I’m surprised Carter didn’t tell you.”

“Well . . .” I shrug. The truth is that I haven’t done a very good job keeping up with Carter. He’d probably be hurt if he knew I texted Shay more than him. That or he’d kick my ass. “It’s hard to stay in touch when we don’t see each other anymore.”

She cocks her head to the side. “But you kept in contact with me.”

Because I can’t seem to let you go. “Maybe I should try harder.”

The statement sounds as weighed down by guilt as I feel, but she waves it away. “Nah, he’s busy too. He joined the Jackson Harbor Fire Department last fall and is loving life.”

I laugh. “I can see Carter playing the hero.”

“He loves it. Mom, however, hates it. She’s proud of him, of course, but she . . . frets.”

“I’m sure.” I grin, thinking of Mrs. Jackson. “She still sends me care packages at Christmas with homemade cookies.” My smile falls away as I remember last Christmas, when Scarlett threw the whole box away and accused me of trying to make her fat to keep her. I was so pissed and told her I’d had no intention of sharing the damn things.

“What’s going on in that mind of yours?” Shay asks. “You look . . . disturbed.”

I take a deep breath, in and out, visualizing the stress and pushing it away. “I never told you . . . I had to see a shrink my first year in the NFL,” I say, evading her question. “I didn’t have you around to help anymore, so I had to learn how to deal with it on my own.”

She winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it was good. I mean, I’m glad I finally learned some coping strategies.”

“I thought football was one thing you never felt anxious about.”

“Not the games, but everything else.” I look at the ceiling, remembering how overwhelmed I was by all the decisions that first year in the league. My agent helped, but it was still too much. “It was a lot, but I figured it out.”

“I’m glad. I guess you don’t need your own personal comfort creature after all.”

“Is that all you thought you were? My comfort creature?”

“I didn’t mind.” She dodges eye contact, studying her food instead, but she’s smiling. “It let me be something more than the tagalong little sister.”

“Shay?” I wait until she meets my gaze. It takes a while, but I’m patient and she’s curious. “There’s no one else I would’ve dropped everything for at the last minute. No one else I would have flown to Paris to see. You haven’t been a tagalong to me in a really long time.”

She bites her lip, and when she releases it, I have to tamp down the urge to reach across the table and touch the marks her teeth left behind. When she smiles at me, everything feels right with the world. “You’ve always known the right thing to say.”