If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Easton

“You have to fucking stop.” Carter stomps away from the house and toward the bonfire blazing on the

beach.

“Stop what?”

“I already told you she’s off-limits.”

The Jackson brothers have been telling me for years that their sister is off-limits. It just didn’t matter

until last summer. I’d been busy with school and hadn’t seen Shayleigh in months when I came out to

the Jackson family cabin with Carter. Shay was here and suddenly she was . . . more. It’s not like I

didn’t know she was pretty before. She’s always been pretty. She’s also always been really fucking

special to me. Something about Shay brings me peace when I need it the most. She’s the only person

I’ve ever met who can chill my anxiety just by sitting next to me.

But sometime between when I’d seen her at Christmas and when I came out here last summer, she

went from the pretty-but-quiet little sister of my best friend to the kind of beautiful it’s hard to look away

from. Or maybe it happened long before last summer, and the swimsuit brought it to my attention.

Because Shayleigh Jackson in a swimsuit, with her long legs, soft thighs, and full breasts—no idea when that happened. She wasn’t simply the Jackson sister anymore. She was a fucking siren, and I

was going to drown trying to resist her. With her dark hair falling around her shoulders and that wide

smile and easy laugh, how could I not notice?

And I noticed a few too many times, because Carter caught me staring and tore into me.

Carter looks to the house then to me, and I can practically see him calculating the pros and cons of

locking his sister away to protect her virtue.

“I told you I wouldn’t hurt her,” I say.

Carter grunts. “Somehow, that’s not comforting.” He sighs. “She’s seventeen.”

“I know.”

“And you’re moving to California next month.”

“I know.”

“She’s so smart, East. She’s only a junior, and she’s already got colleges chasing her. Did you know

she’s fluent in French?”

Did you know she’s incredibly fucking insecure and has no idea what her value is? I don’t ask.

I know I shouldn’t be the man to show her just how beautiful she is, but I want to be anyway. “Does she

. . . does she have a boyfriend?” I ask. Carter’s glare would melt a lesser man, but I turn up my palms.

“I’m not asking your permission to take her virginity. I’m asking if she has a boyfriend. This is normal

conversation.”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” he growls.

“What?” Têxt belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

“I don’t even want you thinking about my sister’s virginity.”

“Again, I’m asking about a boyfriend.”

“No. She doesn’t. She’s too focused on school to date, I think.”

Or she’s too convinced that she’s . . . What did Hilary call her? A fat tagalong? Jesus. If I’d known, I

never would have let that fly.

Carter studies me. “Why?” One word, hundreds of warnings.

I shrug. “Just curious how much she tells you.”

Carter frowns. “Wait. What’s that supposed to mean? Do you know something? Does she have a

boyfriend?”

“You really are the protective big brother cliché.” I press my palm between his shoulder blades and give

him a good shove toward the beach. “The party is waiting.”

As I suspected, it’s less than fifteen minutes until Carter is completely distracted and I can head back to

the house without him noticing. I used the time to circulate and listen to everyone’s congrats. Carter’s

right. I should be out there. This is my celebration. Lifelong dream accomplished. But there’s only one

person I want to celebrate with. One person with killer soft curves and a beautiful smile who owes me a

secret.

Shay’s not in the kitchen where we left her. Did she go down to the bonfire and I missed her? I check

the basement. Nothing. I head back to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge, ready to give up.

Then I hear the screech of old pipes and realize a shower is shutting off.

Grinning, I stride toward the stairs and climb to the second floor. By the time Shay pushes out of the

bathroom in a puff of steam, I’m leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded.

She jumps. “Jesus, Easton. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

I don’t answer. My own heart is having some issues. Mainly, it’s racing like it’s trying to force me

forward with its momentum—toward her.

I did not think this through.

She’s in a fluffy light blue robe. It’s tied at the waist but gapes open at her chest, giving me a view of

the swell of her cleavage. Her wet hair is combed out of her face and falls in light waves down her

back.

It would be so easy to tug on the waistband of her robe, to pull her to me and slide my hands inside, to

cup her breasts and lower my mouth to hers. Easy, but a fucking death sentence.

“Easton!” She tugs the top of her robe tighter. “Ohmygod. Were you just looking at my breasts?”

I take a deep breath and drag my gaze back up to meet hers. “I love that you call them breasts.”

“What else am I supposed to call them?”

I shrug. “Most girls your age would dodge calling them anything at all. Or maybe vaguely refer to their

chest.”

“I think you’re wrong. I’m not twelve anymore.”

I hope my arched brow conveys the obviously I’m not allowed to say.

She swallows. “And, well . . . I guess I’m not afraid of words.”

What are you afraid of?

It’s a question I won’t ask. Not when it would invite her to turn it back on me. I don’t want to talk about

my fears any further than I did in the kitchen. Not tonight. Not when she’s so close and soon she’ll be

so damn far away. I didn’t anticipate it would bother me so much, but the realization eats away at my

gut. “That’s good,” I say. “Because you owe me a few.”

She blinks. “What do I owe you?”

“Words.”

“Must you speak in riddles?”

“Your secret. I told you mine, so now it’s your turn.”

Her face pales, and I wonder just how innocent she is that she doesn’t want to talk about it. “You

already guessed it. I’m gonna go get dressed.”

She turns toward her room, and I grab her wrist to stop her. “We can do this one of two ways,” I say,

and she slowly turns back to face me. “You can just tell me, which would be fair, since that was our

deal. Or”—I lift the beer I grabbed from the fridge—“we can play a game.”

She studies the bottle. “What kind of game?”

“Never Have I Ever.”

She snorts and folds her arms. “Seriously? As I mentioned a minute ago, I’m not twelve anymore.”

I turn up the palm of my free hand, moving it up and down opposite the beer in the other hand, as if I’m

weighing them against each other. “Your choice.”

“Fine, the game, but I’m getting dressed first.”

“If you must,” I say. I can’t stop grinning. Damn it. She does that to me.

I wait in the hall while she disappears into her bedroom, my eyes fixed on the door the whole time.

Carter would definitely kick my ass if he knew I was about to play a drinking game with his little sister.

But it’s not like we’re playing with tequila. One beer split between the two of us can’t get me in too

much trouble. That said, if she’s as innocent as she claims, I’ll be the one doing most of the drinking.

A minute later, and the door swings open. Shay’s gotten dressed, but she’s not in her normal clothes.

She’s wearing pajamas. These aren’t the kind of pajamas that are meant to seduce—they’re gray

cotton. A long-sleeved T-shirt with a lace cutout down each arm, and matching shorts that show just

enough leg to remind me there’s more that I want to see.

She catches me looking and scowls. “My clothes smelled like smoke from the bonfire, and the only

other outfit I have with me is my work uniform for tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“I know.” She frowns. “You’re weird tonight.”

“Nah, I’m weird every night. You’ve just forgotten because you barely ever see me anymore.”

“True.” She motions me to follow her, and when I freeze, she says, “I’m not going to jump you if you

come into my room, weirdo.”

Damn shame.

I swallow hard and step inside “her” bedroom. This isn’t the Jacksons’ full-time home, but their vacation

place. They rent out this cabin to tourists—a ten-year plan to get it paid off sooner, Carter told me—so

it’s definitely not as personal as her room at home, but it is hers. As the only girl, she’s the one Jackson

sibling to get a room of her own, and there are little decorative touches in here that show this room is

truly Shay’s. The bookshelf overflowing with well-loved paperbacks, the map of Paris that hangs over

the queen-sized bed, and the glasses that sit on the bedside table—no doubt for reading after she

takes her contacts out.

I remember when she got glasses for the first time. She was so excited. But then some jerk at school

teased her about them, and she came home with them tucked into her backpack and told her mom she

wouldn’t wear them anymore. She lost that fight, of course, and wore glasses until her mom relented

and let her get contacts when she started middle school.

“I can’t keep much here,” she says as I look around. “We still rent it out sometimes. Less now, though.”

“Carter used to be jealous that you got your own room.”

She shrugs. “Well, I used to be jealous that my brothers had each other and I didn’t have a single

sister.”

“And now?”

She sweeps her hair over one shoulder and starts braiding the wet locks. “Now I’m grateful to be the

only girl. I get along better with boys than I do with girls anyway.” Her fingers work efficiently, and she

ties off the braid at the end.

“Maybe that would be different if you had sisters.”

“Maybe, but I think my family is perfect just the way it is.” She makes a face and seems to rethink her

words. “No, not perfect at all. Just perfect for me, I guess.”

A pang slices through my chest. Jealousy. Their family is incredible, and somehow they all know it. I

don’t have any siblings—none that I know of, at least, though there’s no telling how many kids my

father has brought into this world and walked away from. I don’t even have a dad who gives a shit. Just

Mom, and I’m grateful for her every day. Mom and I are partners; the Jacksons are a team. When life

feels like a constant blitz from the defense, it’s hard not to be jealous of the people who are making

plays with a solid O-line—even when your partner is the best in the game.

“What are you thinking about?” Shay asks.

I shake my head. “Just how lucky you all are.” I let out a breath. “And how much I hate my father.”

Shay’s expression turns sad. “Have you talked to him?”

“Oh, yeah. He was watching the draft and called right away.”

Anger flashes in her eyes. “Of course he did.”

“‘Congratulations, son,’” I say in my mocking impression of my father’s voice. “‘I knew you could do it.

Aren’t you glad you got my athleticism and not your mother’s? Now let me talk out my ass about NFL

contracts like I know anything at all.’”

“Fucker.” Shay’s uncharacteristic curse makes me smile.

“Exactly.”

“Did he ask for money?”

“Not yet. I’m sure he will. But I’ve trained my whole life to tell him no, just like he told Mom no when she

asked for help.”

Her fingers brush mine, and I look down to see her taking the beer from my hand. She takes a long

drink from it, her throat bobbing as she swallows, then hands the bottle to me. “To knowing when to say

no.”

I take a sip and nod before holding up the bottle. It’s nearly half drained. “We don’t have much to work

with here.”

She shrugs. “You’d better make good use of your turns, then.”

“So we’re playing that we take turns saying something and drink if we’ve done it?”

She nods. “Which is why I had to drink so much to start. That beer is pretty much all yours.”

“We’ll see about that.” I smile and lift it to my lips. I imagined us sitting on the floor, face to face as we

took turns, but this is better. Standing, I can be closer to her. “Never have I ever celebrated Father’s

Day with my dad.”

She snags the beer from my hand. “That’s cheap.” She takes a sip then studies me for a long beat

before saying, “Never have I ever had sex.”

Cutting right to the chase. “There’s no rush, Shay. Seriously. Don’t let anyone make you feel like—”

She clears her throat and presses the cold bottle into my hand. “Drink.”

“Right.” I take a sip, mindful of keeping it small so we can keep this going. “Never have I ever had a

crush on a brother’s friend.”

“You don’t have any brothers!”

I shrug. “I don’t make the rules.”

She takes a drink.

She has five brothers, four of them older than her. The possibilities are endless, but there’s only one

possibility I’m interested in hearing her confess to. “Who?”

She laughs. “That is not how this game is played, cheater.” She taps a finger to her lips. “Never have I

ever gone skinny-dipping.”

“Seriously? Your family owns a house on a lake, and you haven’t even once?”

She makes a face. “With my brothers? Hard pass.” She hands the beer back to me.

“Fine.” I watch her over the bottle as I tilt it to my lips and swallow. “Never have I ever gotten Shay off

with my hand.”

She folds her arms, all smugness, until the logic of my statement sinks in and red blossoms in her

cheeks. “Are you seriously asking me if I have masturbated?”

My cock has been half hard since she stepped out of the shower, but at that, it goes the rest of the way.

“Again with the precise word choice.” I shrug. “And in all fairness, you could turn around and do the

same to me.”

She rolls her eyes and takes the beer. “I’m not wasting a turn like that.” She drinks.

I thought I knew what I was doing when I said it, but the image of her in bed flashes through my mind

as clear as a photo—her hand between her legs, pleasure on her face, all that dark hair splayed across

the pillow as she arches into her own touch.

So fucking hot.

My cock strains against the fly of my jeans. I’m playing with fire right now, but I can’t muster any

motivation to back down. “Not all girls do, you know,” I say. “Some are afraid to touch themselves.”

“Yeah, well, I was raised around five boys who talk about masturbation as if it’s a sport half the time

and as if it’s as essential as water the other half. I didn’t exactly have to go up against some massive

stigma the first time I tried it.”

“And how was it?” I swallow. “When you . . .”

She snorts. “You are twenty-one years old, and you can’t say the word masturbated?”

“Why would I when it sounds so much hotter when you say it?” I grin at her immediate and vivid blush,

then nod to the bottle. “It’s your turn.”

She lifts her chin and holds my gaze as she says, “Never have I ever had someone other than myself

get me off.”

“Why not?”

She shoves the bottle into my hand. “Quit cheating with your unsanctioned questions and drink.”

Just how innocent is she? I look at the bottle. There’s hardly a full drink left. Mindful of this, I take a sip

and then push all my chips in. “Never have I ever kissed anyone.”

“You filthy liar.”

Grinning, I tilt the beer to my lips, taking the drink I owe for speaking a never that I have done. I arch a

brow. Waiting. Because surely this beautiful, smart, funny girl has been kissed before. Surely, some

guy saw her for what she was and won her over so he could taste those pink lips.

But when I offer her the beer, she shakes her head.

“Never,” she whispers. “Pretty lame, huh?”

“It’s not lame. Just . . . surprising.”

She scoffs. “What’s so surprising about it?”

I open my mouth, but before I can find the words, I’m interrupted by the sound of doors closing,

footsteps, and laughter booming from downstairs.

The party’s moved inside. That means Shay’s five brothers are downstairs while I’m standing here so

close to her, thinking about what it would be like to be the first man to kiss those lips. “Do you . . .” I

swallow. Her lips part, and I swear there’s some invisible cord between us that goes taut, draws me

forward. “Do you want to?”

Her brow wrinkles as she cranes her neck to look into my eyes. “Want to what?”

I dip my head, lean my forehead against hers. “Be kissed.”

She presses her hand to my chest, and my breath catches as I wait for her to close the distance—

those final inches between our lips.

Instead, she shoves me hard. “Out!”

I stumble before catching my balance. “What the hell?”

“I don’t want your pity kiss, East.” She’s avoiding my eyes, but I don’t miss the hurt that flashes across

her face.

“It wouldn’t be—”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “Just go.”

“Easton? You up here?” Jake’s voice. Fuuuuuck. Not now.

Shay steps around me and opens the door.

“What’s he doing up there?” Carter calls from the stairs. “Shay? That rich asshole with you?”

Jake pokes his head around the doorframe. “You two decent?”

Shay rolls her eyes. “Come in, Jake.”

Jake’s all smiles with a side of drunken stumble as he comes into the room. “There’s the guest of

honor. What are you two doing up here?”

“Telling secrets and braiding each other’s hair.” Shay’s smile is tight. “What else?”

Jake chuckles. Unlike Carter, he’s completely clueless about my attraction to Shay. He grabs the empty

beer from my hand. “You need more!”

Carter rushes into the room. “What’s going on in here?”

“I found him,” Jake says, slinging his arm around my shoulders and leading me out of the room.

I look back at Shay, but she’s busy scanning the books on her bookshelf. Could she truly not feel this

thing between us? Pity kiss? The fuck? How could she even think that was what I was offering?

“You okay?” Carter asks her. “What were you two doing?”

Jake and I are already at the stairs when I hear her say, “We were fucking, Carter. Doing the dirty with

the door open and my brothers downstairs. Can’t you tell? I’m going to turn up pregnant with Easton’s

love child any day now.”

“You’re not funny,” Carter says, but I can hear the tension leave his voice. The typical Shay smartass

response was possibly the only one that would put his mind at ease.

When I turn back to them, she’s pushed Carter out of her room and is closing the door after him.

Never been kissed. I can hardly wrap my brain around it.