If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Easton

Scarlett picked up Abi and took her to Chicago for Easter weekend. They got a suite at the Four Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive © material.

Seasons and are shopping and going to the aquarium. That leaves me to spend the weekend alone in

Jackson Harbor until Abi comes home Sunday morning—though I’m not interested in spending it alone

at all.

As I climb the stairs to Shay’s apartment, I feel like a teenage boy about to go on his first date. I

grabbed pizza again, but I’m hoping this time I won’t have to give it to the neighbor. When I texted

earlier, Shay said she’d be home and didn’t argue when I said I was going to swing by. Since I’m

focusing on the little victories with her, that felt like a prize.

I shift the pizza box and knock with my free hand. Shay opens the door to her apartment wearing

flannel sleep pants and a tank top with a picture of Shakespeare that says, “OMG. I literary can’t even.”

Her hair’s piled in a messy bun on top of her head, and her makeup’s been washed away. She looks

younger like this. More vulnerable. And I hate myself for every time I’ve hurt her.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

She looks down as if she’s forgotten what she’s wearing. “Thanks. Lilly gave it to me for Christmas.”

She leans on the doorjamb and arches a brow. “What did you need?”

You. “I thought we could hang. Talk. Whatever. Abi’s with her mom for the weekend.”

She folds her arms. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to let you in here.”

“It’s a great idea. This is the kind of stuff friends do. But if you prefer, we can hang out in the corridor.” I

grin, but inside, I’m a mess. If friends is all she can give me, then I’ll take it. From Shay, I’d live on the

scraps if it meant I didn’t have to let her go. After what she said on Wednesday night about pushing me

away for Abi’s sake, I feel lucky that she’ll talk to me at all.

“What if I just close the door?” I can tell she’s trying to keep a straight face, but her lips twitch.

“You know that eighties movie with John Cusack? Where he holds up the stereo outside her window?

It’d be like that. But for friendship.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m so sure you’re going to pull a Say Anything to get me to talk to you.”

I give her my best cocky grin. “Test me.”

She stares at me for a long time as if she’s trying to decide if I’m bluffing. Hell, now that she’s doubting

me, I kind of hope she makes me do it. I’ll have to go buy a stereo from Target, though. I hope they still

sell those. Holding up an iPhone and Bluetooth speaker just doesn’t have the same appeal.

Stepping back, she opens the door wide and waves me in. “Come on, then.”

I step inside and right past her, as if I’ve been here a hundred times before. I keep walking until I’m on

the other side of the small living room and reach the kitchen. I plop the pizza box on the counter and

open it up. “I got your favorite. Pepperoni and jalapeno, and those cheese-stuffed breadsticks.”

When I turn, she’s on the opposite side of the kitchen island. “No, thanks.”

Well, shit. I probably should’ve asked about her food preferences too. I abandon the pizza and walk

toward her. “Can I order you something else, then? Chinese? Thai? Wings?”

“I had oatmeal.”

“For dinner?”

She shrugs and tugs open her fridge. There’s not much in there—some sliced melon, cottage cheese,

milk, lettuce, and a variety pack of Jackson Brews beer. “Want a beer?”

“Sure.” I pull a slice of pizza from the box and take a bite. I hate to eat in front of her, but I’m starved.

She grabs an IPA for me, but I notice she doesn’t get one for herself. She pops the lid off for me and

hands it over. “That smells so good.” She closes her eyes and groans.

And now my dick’s hard. “It is. You should have a piece.”

She stares longingly at the box. “I don’t eat that stuff anymore.”

“Why not?”

She waves a hand over her body, as if this explains anything. “Because this is better. And I might be

fully recovered, but greasy foods still remind me of my binge-then-starve days.”

I frown as I look her over. She was always self-conscious about her weight. And then sometime

between Paris and when she came to my hotel room in Chicago, she’d thinned out. I remember being

worried about how frail she looked. “You had an eating disorder.”

She laughs, but the sound is dark and cold. “Yeah. Between grasping for control when Dad was dying

to trying to deal with lifelong insecurities about my body . . .” She shrugs.

“I never understood why you were so self-conscious.”

“I know.” She holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Intellectually, I know that you thought I was

beautiful and whatever.”

“And whatever? I was head over heels for you just the way you were.” I hate the idea of her making

herself sick.

“Does your family know?”

“Mom does. She’s the one who took me to the counselor after Dad died. She said her heart wouldn’t

ever recover from losing Dad if she had to watch me waste away too. I asked her not to tell the boys,

and she agreed. I’m all better now, though, so stop giving me that look.”

“But you still don’t eat pizza?” I take another bite and watch her consider how to answer this.

“Part of my recovery was identifying triggers for me—emotional triggers, food triggers. It’s not like I had

a healthy relationship with food before I lost the weight. The anorexia was just a new manifestation of

existing issues.” She shrugs. “So as I recovered, I had to deal with those issues and try to form new,

healthy habits. I choose not to eat foods that make me feel angry with myself after. For whatever

reason, I can drink a beer or have the occasional ice cream sundae without feeling like my life is

spinning out of control, without feeling like food is some evil sin I’ve succumbed to again. But I

associate pizza with . . .” She bites her lip, like she’s trying to keep the words in.

“With what?”

“Self-loathing?” She laughs, and I can tell it’s because she’s uncomfortable sharing that and not

because she thinks anything’s funny.

“Does it bother you for me to eat in front of you?”

“Not at all. Seriously, I’ve come a long way. And I’ve learned to love my body through exercise. I love

what it can do—how I feel after a long run or after squatting heavy weights.”

Bigger or frighteningly thin, she’s always been beautiful to me, but I have to admit the healthy curve of

her glutes and the muscle in her shoulders look good on her. And the confident sway of her hips looks

even better.

She shrugs. “I still have my moments, but I’m in a pretty healthy place.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Maybe we could run together someday. I enjoy it too.”

“I’m not like my brothers. I like to enjoy my workouts—not kill myself to compete.”

I’ve worked out with her brothers a few times now. They like to do CrossFit-style workouts and bust

their asses to beat each other. As a lifelong competitor, I love that, but that’s not always what I’m

looking for when I go to the gym. “I promise I won’t race you.” I glance around the kitchen as I finish my

second slice of pizza. The space is small but tidy. There’s a stack of books beside her laptop on the

table. “Were you working?”

She nods. “I just finished up the last of my revisions and sent my final dissertation off to my committee.”

“That’s incredible. Why aren’t you out celebrating?”

She snorts. “A night at home with no work is my idea of a celebration. And anyway, nothing’s official

until after my defense.”

“But your committee’s read it at this point, right?”

“Yeah, they’ve read pieces of it along the way and given me feedback. George has read everything

except my most recent revisions.”

“Then you should be fine. Right?”

She wraps her arms around herself and seems to shrink. “Assuming George doesn’t hold it against me

when I tell his wife he slept with me.”

Well, shit. “You think he will? Do you think you should wait?”

“If I wait, I’m only doing it to protect myself, and that feels wrong. I should never have slept with him to

begin with. I might not have known he was married, but I went to bed with him when he was the chair of

my committee. This is part of that fallout, like it or not, and I can’t wait to tell a woman her husband is

unfaithful just because it’s inconvenient to me.” She straightens a stack of papers on the counter.

“Knowing and not telling her makes me complicit.”

“What happens if George holds it against you? What if he doesn’t . . . pass your dissertation or

whatever?”

“Then I don’t get my PhD, and I’m suddenly under-qualified for all the jobs I’ve been interviewing for.”

Jobs that will take her away from Jackson Harbor. I close up the pizza box while I consider this. Fuck.

I’m so selfish. I don’t want her to leave, but if that’s what she wants . . . “Did you ever email that agent?”

She ducks her head, and I already know the answer before she says, “Not yet.”

I grab a napkin and wipe off my hands. “Why not?”

She studies the stack of papers and straightens it again. “Because reading and writing fiction has

always been my safe place. The stories I read as a kid got me through high school when I thought the

size of my body made me less important than skinnier girls. And writing got me through college—when

I was so stressed, it was there to help me unwind.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “It was

there to help me work through losing you. Both times.”

“It’ll still be that, won’t it? Even if you try to make a go of it?”

She swallows and cuts her eyes away. “There’s a really good chance I’m not good enough. Most

people aren’t.”

I cross the small kitchen and take her chin in my hand, guiding her to meet my eyes. “I believe in you.”

“You haven’t even read my stuff.”

I shrug. “I’d love to, if you wanted me to. But even without reading, I have faith that you can tell an

amazing story. You grew up with a book in one hand and a pencil in the other. At this point, it’s probably

written into your DNA.”

She studies my face and then her gaze shifts from my eyes to my mouth, and the energy in the room

changes. The tension between us becomes a palpable thing.

“If we weren’t just friends,” I say softly, “this is when I’d kiss you.”

Her breath catches. “Is it?”

“Yeah, but that would only be the beginning. Once I tasted you, I’d want more, and I’d end up lifting you

onto the counter so you could wrap your legs around me.” I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and skim

my fingertips down the side of her neck. “Then I’d kiss you here because I know how much you like it.”

Her lips part and her pupils dilate. “You were always good at figuring out what I like.”

“Because figuring out what turns you on turns me on. But once I started tasting you, I’d be greedy for

more, and I’d end up with my face between your legs, licking you until you were begging me to fuck

you.”

Her chest expands on a ragged inhale. “But we are just friends.”

For now. Nodding, I skim a finger over her bottom lip. “I’m gonna be the best fucking friend you’ve ever

had, Shayleigh Jackson.”

“Hmm. I guess that remains to be seen.”

I allow myself one last touch before dropping my hand and stepping back to give her the space she

needs. “Well, it’s Friday night and your best friend is here to celebrate your completed dissertation.

What do we do next?” I smile to cover the truth that I’m terrified she’s going to ask me to leave.

She looks to the living room and then back to me. “Before you got here, I was about to watch a movie.

Do you want to watch it with me?”

I grin. Little victories. “Sounds good. What are you watching?”

“The Princess Bride. It’s one of my comfort movies. Is that okay? If not, we can—”

“It’s great.” She could tell me she planned to watch a documentary on drying paint, and I’d be game. I

doubt I’ll be able to keep my attention on the screen anyway. I’m just glad to be spending time with

Shay.

We both sit on the couch, keeping a friend-appropriate distance between us, and she pulls her feet up

under her as she starts the movie.

I watch her posture go looser and looser and her eyes get heavy. We’re not even thirty minutes in when

she falls asleep. She shifts in her sleep and leans against me, using my arm as a pillow. Her neck’s at

an awkward angle, and her body’s torqued. I hate to imagine how knotted her neck will be if she stays

like this long, so I grab a pillow, put it in my lap, and guide her to rest her head on it.

Then, like any friend would, I spend the rest of the movie watching her sleep. Totally reasonable friend

behavior.

After the credits roll, the TV cycles into a screensaver, and the sudden quiet startles her awake. She

blinks up at me. “East?”

“Hey.”

“Have I been sleeping long?”

“Movie’s over.”

She rubs her eyes but doesn’t jerk away from me, so I’ll consider that a win too. Slowly enough so she

can stop me if she wants to, I cup her face in one hand and trace the line of her jaw and the shell of her

ear.

“Was it as good as the first dozen times you saw it?” she asks sleepily.

“I enjoyed every minute,” I say, though I didn’t waste a minute looking at the screen once she was

sleeping in my lap. She stretches her arms overhead, arching her back, and my gaze snags on her

hard nipples pressed against the image on her thin T-shirt. There’s a real possibility I’ll get a semi from

the sight of Shakespeare’s face from here on out, and that’s just screwed up.

“I should go to bed,” she says.

“If you want.”

Silence pulses around us, thick with sexual tension. “And you should probably leave.”

“If you want me to.”

“I don’t,” she whispers.

I take that as my green light and hold her gaze as I skim my hand down her neck, across the swell of

her breasts and the peak of each nipple. She leans into my hand and moans softly at the light friction.

“I can’t give you anything but friendship right now,” she says, even as she leans into my touch.

“I’ll take it.”

“We really could be great friends.”

I roll her nipple under my thumb. “The best.”

“We should do that, then.” She gasps when I pinch her opposite nipple. “Is this breaking the rules?”

“Only if you say it is.” I trail my fingers between her breasts and over her stomach, slipping them

beneath the waistband of her flannel pants. “What do you say? Is this allowed?”

She lifts her hips off the couch. An invitation.

I stroke back and forth beneath the elastic and circle her navel with my thumb. “This is your call,

Shayleigh. You make the rules.”

“I can’t be . . .” She squirms under my hand, no doubt fighting the instinct to guide my hand where she

needs it. “It’s not fair to you. I might not even live here much longer.”

The idea of her leaving is a kick in the chest, but I push that pain aside. “As your best friend, I’m sure I

won’t want you to leave whether I touch you tonight or not.”

Her eyes are closed and her tongue darts out to graze her bottom lip. I can barely breathe I want her so

badly.

“Can your best friend touch you?” I ask, hearing the desperation in my voice. “Can I make you come?”

She opens her eyes and searches my face. “Please?”

That’s all I need. I cup her between her legs. She’s so wet, and I’ve barely started. She parts her legs

for me, giving me easier access to her slick folds. I circle her entrance. Once. Twice. She whimpers,

and I plunge a finger inside her. She’s so hot and wet and tight. Her eyes shut again, and those soft

pink lips part. I want to kiss her, but the way our bodies are positioned, I can’t, so I watch, my gaze

switching between the way she’s moving against my hand and the pleasure on her face. Updated at

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I add a second finger to the first and find her clit with my thumb. Her body clenches tightly, and blood

pulses to my cock.

“As your friend,” I say, eyes fixed on her hips now and how she’s fucking my hand, “I think you should

know you have the perfect pussy.”

Without meaning to, I’ve increased the pace of my hand, fucking her deeper and harder with my

fingers. Her teeth scrape my knuckle and she gasps, her whole body tensing before she finally lets go

and her orgasm pulses around my fingers.

I turn my touch gentle. Slow. I’m guiding her down, reluctant to pull away until I have to.

When she opens her eyes, they’re foggy with lust and there’s a small, satisfied smile on her lips.

“You’re one hell of a friend.”

I smirk. “Told you so.”

She removes my hand from her pants, and I groan. I could touch her all night, but if playtime must be

over . . .

I lift my fingers to my mouth and suck off the taste of her. She watches me with wide eyes and releases

a little whimper that speaks volumes. I’m not the only one who wants more tonight.

Sitting up, she turns to face me on the couch and slides a hand down my chest to my stomach. “Your

turn?”

I push off the couch and adjust myself in my jeans. I’m so fucking hard right now. “I should go.”

“Are you sure? I can . . .” She shakes her head, and I can see her scrambling to decide what she’s

okay with. How far we can go within her rules. “I can return the favor.”

“I . . .”

I pull away. Last time I got her off, we switched gears so fast that I couldn’t even enjoy how beautiful

she looked all flushed and satisfied. Today, I want to take a picture and frame it above my bed. “I’ll see

you Sunday.”

She blinks at me. “Sunday?”

“Jackson family Easter dinner. At the cabin.” I smile and look her over, thinking of tequila and drinking

games, first kisses and crossing lines. I can see in her eyes that she’s thinking about those things too.

“I’m really looking forward to it.”