If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter Twelve

Easton

Glasses. Sloppy bun. Pencil skirt. Oversized cardigan. No makeup, but a little gloss on her lips.

Shay agreed to meet me at the coffee kiosk in the lobby of the campus library Wednesday morning,

and I’m sure she had no idea that her choice in attire would inspire some serious sexy librarian

fantasies.

She grabs her coat off the back of a chair and shrugs into it. “Good. You’re on time. Where do you want

to start? I want to be back in my office by ten.”

I grin at her. I’m not about to let her abrasive attitude scare me off. I brought a new fledgling NFL team

through its growing pains and to three Super Bowl wins. I am persistence. “Coffee?” I ask, ignoring her

scowl.

She opens her mouth, and I know she wants to refuse like she refused the beer I brought up last night,

but this is Shay and coffee. I know her weaknesses. “I guess we can drink and walk.”

I’m going to win her back one little victory at a time, and we’ll call this victory number one. “Americano,

splash of half and half?”

Something in her expression softens, but she lifts her chin, fighting it. “That would be perfect, thanks.”

I head to the counter to grab our drinks, and she stays at her table and pulls out her phone, an action

surely meant to put me in my place. Sure, she might have to show me around campus, but she’s not

going to pretend to be happy about it.

“What can I get you?” the barista asks me. His tone sounds as disgusted as his facial expression looks.

“Two grande Americanos. One black, one with cream.”

The dude rolls his eyes. “They come black. Cream’s behind you.”

“Right. Perfect, then.”

The library seems like an odd place for a coffee stand, but apparently the kiosk is part of the college’s

efforts to turn the library into a comfortable “hangout” space students will want to use rather than a

dusty grave for research they can find online.

I turn and see a tall, bearded hipster dude smiling at Shay. He’s older—not so old that he’s given up on

the gym, I notice, but definitely old enough that someone should tell him to cut off the manbun. He

plops his briefcase on a table and steps close to her. It’s not exactly inappropriate, but it’s definitely

inside her bubble. When he adjusts her scarf, she flashes him a grin that I haven’t seen in way too

many years. It’s a grin of adoration and pure feminine satisfaction.

What in the actual fuck is happening here?

Shay says something and then nods. The hipster dude’s eyes go to me, and I hear him ask her

something that sounds like “That’s him?” and Shay nods again.

“Sir?” The cranky barista nudges the drinks toward me on the counter. “Your drinks?”

“Thanks.” Giving him a smile he doesn’t deserve, I grab the drinks, add a splash of cream to Shay’s,

and head over to meet the guy who seems to think he can look at Shay like . . . like she’s his. “Your

coffee,” I say, handing it to her.

She gives a tight smile and takes it. “Thanks. Easton, this is Dr. George Alby. Dr. Alby is a professor in This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

the English department and the chair of my dissertation committee. His collection of essays on

Bradbury’s influence on contemporary literature just won the Reichart Prize of Excellence—one of the

highest honors in our field.”

“I’m impressed,” I say with a smile that probably says I’m not. But at least I have something to smile

about now. Dissertation chair, not boyfriend.

“Dr. Alby, this is Easton. He’s the old family friend I was telling you about.”

I have a large-ass list of career credentials, and she’s going to tell me about his prize while only giving

me “family friend.” Fine, then. I offer George my hand. “Nice to meet you, George.” I’ll be damned if I’m

going to call him Dr. Alby.

George’s attempt at a firm handshake is laughable. Dude might still know his way around the gym and

have eight to ten years on me, but his hands are as soft as a five-year-old boy’s. And yeah, I’m judging.

“You’re getting a campus tour today?” he asks.

“Yeah. Shay’s nice enough to show me around.”

She shoots me a death glare that says she’s not doing it out of the goodness of her heart.

“Well, you’re in for a treat,” George says, beaming at her. “Shay’s the best company you could ask for.”

“I know she is. That’s why I wanted her to do it.”

He loops his arm around her shoulders—again, not exactly inappropriate, but definitely more intimate

than colleague or mentor. Body language is everything, and his says, She’s mine. I wonder if he knows

about her secret boyfriend. “You played football?”

I almost laugh at his blasé tone. As if he’s asking if I played on the intermural team at some accounting

firm, but I manage to keep a straight face. “A little.”

Shay rolls her eyes. “Easton was MVP this year. He’s just retired and wrapped up an impressive career

with more than four hundred passing touchdowns and over fifty thousand yards.”

I smirk at her. Someone was paying attention.

“I don’t really follow sports,” George says. “Seeing grown men give each other concussions isn’t my

idea of fun.”

Football isn’t for everyone, and hell, I’ve had enough concussions that I’m legitimately concerned about

the future of my brain. Nobody wants to end up in a nursing home, drooling into their Jell-O before the

age of fifty. And yet I bet George’s idea of “fun” is about as stimulating as watching paint dry.

George can’t keep his eyes off Shay, and it makes me want to punch him. Something about the way he

looks at her is so possessive. Do most dissertation chairmen look at their students like they plan to strip

them bare and fuck them silly? “Let’s meet after my three o’clock so we can talk about the chapter I

want you to rewrite.”

I don’t miss the way she tenses a fraction at those words. “I can’t tonight. I promised Lilly I’d take her to

gymnastics and watch her new bar routine.”

“Come by my office after you’re done giving your tour, then.” He winks at her then turns to go, not

bothering to say goodbye to either of us.

Dude is so slimy I want a shower. “So that’s the chair of your dissertation committee,” I say when he’s

pushing out of the library.

“Yep.” She takes a sip of her coffee.

“Did you have any say in who you got to work with?”

She frowns. “Of course.”

“And you chose him?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m lucky to have the opportunity to work with Dr. Alby. He’s a fantastic mentor.”

“He doesn’t give you a creeper vibe?”

Her eyes flare. “George is a good guy. Don’t be a dick.” She looks at her watch pointedly and gives me

a plastic smile. “I don’t have much time, and my boss would kill me if I didn’t give you that tour you want

so badly, so we’d better get moving.” She turns and walks toward the exit with the long strides of a

woman on a mission. The view from back here isn’t bad at all, but I’m disturbed enough by the bad

vibes from Professor Douche that I’m almost too distracted to appreciate it.

I’m quiet while I follow her out of the library. The sidewalks that were crowded with students ten

minutes ago have cleared out, and with two long strides, I’ve caught up to her and am walking by her

side. “You two are . . . interesting.”

She meets my eyes. “What’s interesting?”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t expect someone in his position to be so territorial around you.” The answer I’m

looking for is right there in the way she drops her gaze to her shoes. Shit. “You’re dating him? The

hipster academic with the manbun?”

She flinches and looks around as if she’s checking to make sure no one’s overheard “Would you be

quiet?”

I lower my voice and try again. “Tell me you’re not dating Professor Douche.”

“I’m not sure dating is the right word.”

I stiffen. “You’re fucking him.” My words come out a low rumble instead of the matter-of-fact statement I

was aiming for. She doesn’t look at me, and I know it’s true. “You’re fucking the chair of your

dissertation committee. Isn’t that . . .?”

She shoves her hands in the pockets of her coat and increases her pace. “Isn’t it what?” she asks, jaw

tight, gaze straight ahead. “It’s not against any official rules, if that’s what you mean.”

Riiiiight. “Then why the secrecy?”

Her shoulders hunch around her ears. “Because it is frowned upon. I’d appreciate it if you kept this

between us. People would . . . they’d make assumptions about both of us.”

“Assumptions like he’s taking advantage of you through his position.”

Stopping suddenly, she spins on me, her eyes wide. “No one coerced me into anything. I know what

I’m doing.”

When she lifts her eyes to mine, her expression is one of resigned sadness. “Whether I am or not isn’t

your concern anymore.” New chąpter avąilable oո NovelDrama.Org

I’m going to change that. “You don’t love him.” Maybe I’m reassuring myself. Maybe I’m reminding her.

“I care about him. We care about each other.” She narrows her eyes. “Stop looking at me like I’m some

challenge. You only want me because you can’t have me.”

She stares at the business card. “I know this agent. Callie Weiman reps some big names in YA. Last I

checked, she wasn’t open to queries.”

“But she’s willing to consider yours.”

She blinks up at me. “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Just enough to keep me on the hook. Just enough so I can’t ever really let you go.”

The words are a knife to the gut and a balm all at once. I wonder if she realizes she admitted she still

has feelings for me. I don’t want to hurt her. I hate knowing that I have. But if there’s any chance for us,

I have to try. “What if I don’t want you to let me go? What if I want you to forget your professor and give

me a fucking chance?”