If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter Nineteen

Shay

Apparently, I’m capable of flipping from adoring girlfriend to vindictive ex in no time, because the day

after my breakup with George, I’m determined to find out if there is a Buttercup.

One thing I know for sure is that I owe it to the woman George is seeing to tell her we’ve been sleeping

together. If he didn’t tell me about her, chances are he didn’t tell her about me. But the problem is I

don’t even have a name, let alone a way to get ahold of her. I can’t exactly ask George for her contact

info. I doubt he’d be interested in supporting my mission.

So I find myself doing what any slightly unhinged ex-girlfriend would do: I wait for George to leave

campus on Thursday evening, and I get in my car and follow him to Chicago.

There are a thousand things wrong with this plan, the least of which is the possibility that following him

tonight will be fruitless. Even if he does have some side piece in Chicago, what are the chances he

goes straight to her on a Thursday night? But I don’t have any better ideas, so I follow him the two and

a half hours on the interstate, staying a couple of cars back, and hope for the best.

In truth, the downtime of the drive is kind of nice after months of a packed schedule. I’m behind on my

pleasure reading, so I listen to a new release on audio from one of my favorite romance authors. By the

time we’re pulling off the interstate, I’m in a pretty good mood.

If he just goes home and not to his girlfriend’s, I’ll call up some of my old college friends who still live in

the area and enjoy a nice dinner. But when I follow him into a residential area and he pulls into the

garage, I realize I’m a little disappointed. This is his house. He’s told me all about it, and I recognize the

big front porch and the swing in the front yard from his descriptions.

I park along the road a couple of houses down to regroup. I tried to prepare myself for this possibility,

but I really don’t want to drag this out any longer. I don’t relish the idea of delivering bad news, and I

want to get it over with. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I’m barely even paying attention when George comes out the front door with his daughter. That strikes

me as strange. I thought she lived with her mom during the week, and I would’ve thought he’d need to

make a stop to get her. Did her mom meet him here?

There’s a tire swing hanging from the big maple tree in the front yard, and he lifts her onto it and starts

swinging her. A wave of guilt flashes over me. I’m being a vindictive ex trying to find his other girlfriend,

and here he is, playing with his daughter. I turn on the car with a resigned sigh. Dinner and friend

reunions aren’t appealing anymore. I’d rather just drive home.

I’m pulling away when I spot a woman coming out of the house. She has the same blond hair as the

little girl—maybe her mother. She goes up to George and loops her arms behind his neck, kissing him

full on the mouth. Wait. Who is she? Did the girlfriend bring his daughter over? It never occurred to me

that he might have a serious relationship with Buttercup. Or maybe . . .

Maybe that is the mother of his child.

I rack my brain for the name of the woman. Merritt. He’s mentioned her before. She’s a professor at

Loyola.

I park my car again, a few houses down in the opposite direction this time, so I have to turn in my seat

if I want to watch them. I pull out my phone, search Loyola professor Merritt, and click on the top result.

Merritt Reddy, associate professor of anthropology. The picture is definitely the same woman who just

stuck her tongue down his throat. Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

Are they reuniting? I never got the impression it was a contentious separation, so I guess a reunion is

possible, but this is the first time he’s been home since we broke up yesterday.

When I look toward George’s yard again, the three of them are headed back inside.

Someone knocks on my window, and I jump. A woman’s standing at my door, disapproval all over her

face.

Shit. I roll down my window. “Hi.”

“Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine.” I smile and reach for the window button again, but she shakes her head.

“I’m on the neighborhood watch, you see. So I need you to tell me why you’re here, or I’m going to call

the police.”

Fabulous. My face heats, and I decide to use my embarrassment to my advantage. “I’m a student at

Loyola and I was coming by to talk to Dr. Reddy about getting a reference letter for graduate school,

but . . .” I duck my head. “Well, then I saw her with her child and realized I need to wait until her office

hours.” I turn my phone to her so she can see that I have Merritt’s contact page pulled up on my phone.

Her office hours are right beneath her photo.

“Well, she deserves time with her family like anyone. You were right to rethink your plan.”

I nod. “This works out, though, in a way. I was getting her a couple of theater tickets as a thank-you, but

I think I should make sure it’s enough so she can take out her whole family. Do you think she’d want to

bring her boyfriend and his child?”

The woman purses her lips. “You mean her husband and their child? Yes, I imagine she would. They’re

both so busy. Don’t get enough time together as a family.”

Husband? My stomach is in a perpetual freefall. “I didn’t realize she was married. I thought she was . . .

divorced for some reason.” I thought they just had a child together. I thought they were never very

serious.

“Dear no. They’re an odd couple, but they moved in right after their wedding five years ago and have

been living there together since.”

“They weren’t . . . separated or something? Recently, I mean.” I force a laugh. “I’m so silly. I thought

she was single and would’ve felt so bad not getting enough tickets!”

She waves a hand. “You’re just confused because her husband works out of town a few days a week.”

She straightens as if realizing this was a poor choice of information to share with a suspicious stranger.

“You should probably get going before someone thinks you’re up to no good. Just find her during her

office hours, and don’t bother her at home.”

“Right. You’re absolutely right, of course. Thank you so much.”

I’ve been sleeping with a married man. And they’re not just married. They’re married and have a child

together. It’s unreal. My brain refuses to process it. I feel like I’m watching a TV show or having a

nightmare. Every time I try to process what I’ve done, my mind pushes it away. That’s not me. I

wouldn’t do that.

But I have. And I can’t take it back.

I leave the neighborhood and pull into the fueling station just before the interstate. I throw the car in

park, put my head on the steering wheel, and cry.

Easton

“What kind of man goes house-hunting with his ex?” Maven asks, horror all over that pretty face

women love. I met him in downtown Chicago this morning for brunch, a much-needed reprieve from

Scarlett and her eccentric housing tastes.

I shrug. “A man who wants his kid to be within a few hours of her mom?”

“Better man than me,” he mutters. “She planning to live in Chicago full-time?”

“Nah, she’s planning to split her time between Chicago and L.A. But who knows what will end up

happening? You know Scarlett.”

“That I do,” he says, grabbing his menu.

I follow my buddy’s lead and try to figure out what I want for breakfast. The place is nice, but one look

at all the fancy “waffle sundaes” on the menu is a blow to the gut. Shit like that makes me miss my

daughter even more intensely. I talked to her last night, and she’s doing great. It’s not like she’s

unaccustomed to me being away, but I’m ready for us to settle into our life in Jackson Harbor and for

time apart to become the exception.

“You can bring Abi down here next month,” Maven says, reading my damn mind. He and I played

together on the Demons for three years before he was traded to Chicago two years ago. He was my

favorite receiver, and when they replaced him, I felt like I was being asked to win games without one of

my arms.

I tap my menu, pointing to a picture of a chocolate, maple, bacon, and whipped cream waffle

monstrosity. “I’m telling you now, this is the one she’d get. And then her mom would freak that I let her

have sugar.”

He laughs. “Well, take a damn pic of it and text it to her. Tell her Uncle Maven is going to treat her when

she comes to visit.”

“Done.”

“Two coffees,” our waitress says. She slides our steaming mugs on the table and pulls out a small

notebook. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

“We’ll need a minute,” Maven says. He gives her a lascivious once-over. “Everything looks so good.”

The waitress blushes. “I’ll be right back, then.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Really? You can’t make it through breakfast without hitting on our damn

waitress?”

Maven grins. “I mean, I could, but why would I want to?”

I grunt and look back down to my menu, only to see a familiar form in my periphery. “You’ve got to be

kidding me.”

Maven follows my gaze—obvious as hell, but I don’t actually care. “What?”

Professor Douche slides into the booth across from us. Fucking awesome. This is exactly how I want to

spend my morning.

“Who’s that?”

“Professor Douche,” I mutter. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Maven’s eyes go wide, and he gives Shay’s guy a dismissive once-over before turning back to me.

“Speaking of, how is the love life?”

I tear my attention off George and focus on Mav. “What love life?”

“Oh, now you’re going to pretend you weren’t hoping to get back together with the best friend’s little

sister? What’s wrong? Did it turn out she’s serious about Mr. Manbun?”

“Serious enough about him that she won’t talk to me.” I squeeze the back of my neck. Hell, Shay’s

refusal to talk to me probably has nothing to do with George Alby and everything to do with how I

fucked up.

Mav’s attention slides to the table across from us before coming back to me. “But that’s not your girl.”

“No,” I say. “That is not Shay.” Fuck. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Can I take a picture? Would that

be going too far?

“Well, score one for Team Easton. Does she know?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Holy shit, man. You’re gonna tell her, though, right?”

My jaw ticks. “I think I have to, but I doubt she’ll believe me.” She certainly didn’t appreciate it when I

told her about Buttercup.

He hisses. “What a fucking mess.”

“Sure. I understand.” Maven pulls a twenty from his wallet and throws it on the table to cover our

coffees.

I stand and head toward the door, but after three steps, I turn around and go to George’s table. Reаd at

NovelDrama.Org

He’s so absorbed with his company that he doesn’t even notice me scowling down at him. I clear my

throat. “What do you—” He blinks at me. “Easton.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “This is Buttercup?”

The blonde frowns. “What are you talking about?” She looks to George. “Who is this?”

George shakes his head. “Someone I know from work.”

“Who’s Buttercup?”

I grunt. Jesus, how many women is he stringing along?

“Did you need something, Easton?”

His date arches a brow. “Who do you think you are to interrupt our meal like this?”

George smiles at me, unfazed when he should be horrified. “He thinks he’s a big shot just because he’s

an athlete.”

Oh, fuck that. He realizes I’m going to tell Shay, right? “Shay deserves better than you,” I say.

Maven grabs my arm and tugs me toward the exit. “Come on, East. Let’s get out of here.”