If It's Only Love

by Ryan, Lexi

  I enter the security code on the door and push inside. It’s darker in here, the only light from the high windows on the garage doors, but there’s enough to see and it’s still nice and cool, unlike in the summer, when the metal walls turn it into an oven.

  I shut the door and smile up at him. “When I was a teenager, you and I were alone in here once. You were in a pair of swim trunks, shirtless, and I was looking for the big float for the lake.”

  “I remember. You were wearing a black swimsuit and . . .” He bites a knuckle dramatically, and I laugh. “Carter was pissed at me that day.”

  I hoist myself up on the counter in the workshop at the back of the barn. “I got sick of looking and sat here,” I say. “I was so self-conscious about my body, but I thought . . .” I bite my bottom lip. Even more than a dozen years later and with a world more self-confidence, it’s hard to make myself say the words. “I thought you were looking at me.”

  He prowls forward. Slowly. Too slowly. “I was.”

  “I think I believe that now, but I didn’t then. I couldn’t have. So I did what I always did when I needed to cheer myself up. I told myself a story.”

  Easton stops two feet away and tilts his head to the side. “What kind of story?”

  “I imagined I was the kind of girl you’d look at—”

  “Not a stretch, since you were.”

  “And that you desperately wanted to kiss me.”

  “I did.”

  “I told myself you were going to stop tinkering with Jake’s old bike and notice me sitting here.”

  His nostrils flare. “I noticed.”

  “Maybe if we’d been friends then—like we are now—I would’ve had the courage to tell you I wanted you to kiss me.”

  “Maybe if we were friends, I would have had the balls to ask.” He steps closer, and even sitting on the counter, I have to look up to see his face. He nudges my thighs apart and takes another step to stand between them. He strokes a whisper-soft path up my thigh, pushing my dress aside on the way. “Do you want me to kiss you, Shay?”

  “We are friends, right?” I whisper. “I like being your friend. Do you like it?”

  He buries his face in my neck, and I gasp at the feel of his tongue flicking the sensitive skin behind my ear. “I like this.” He sucks my earlobe between his teeth. “And this.”

  I whimper. “Yes, me too.” I turn my head, searching for his mouth, and he kisses me hard. His hands are in my hair, and our tongues collide. Desperate. Searching.

  “As your friend,” he says, his voice all low and gravelly when he breaks the kiss, “I couldn’t help but notice the way you were looking at me tonight.”

  “How did I look?”

  “Like being friends might not be enough for you. Like you were thinking about me getting you off on your couch. Like you were thinking that maybe next time, you want more from me.”

  My breath catches as his knuckles graze the damp cotton between my thighs. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” I confess, fighting the urge to rock into him.

  “Me neither.” He dips his head to the swell of my breast above the neckline of my dress, opens his mouth, and bites down gently.

  My breath shudders out of me. “I want to touch you.”

  He groans against my breast, and I wiggle away from him and hop off the counter. He turns, watching me, and I drop to my knees, working at his buckle. “Christ,” he whispers. But he doesn’t stop me, and the desperation in his eyes is enough to send a shock of pleasure right through my core.

  I free him from his jeans and nearly gasp at the feel of him in my hand—hard and silken against my palm. Hard for me.

  He rocks into my fist, groaning. “Shay. Fuck, that’s good.”

  I lean forward and press my mouth to the tip of his cock. The way he jerks under my lips sends a rush of power through me so potent I feel like I could do anything. I run my tongue along the underside then grip him at the base of his shaft before I take him into my mouth.

  Maybe this is reckless, but we’ve already crossed lines, and right now, there’s nothing I want more than to make him come.

  He threads his fingers through my hair, not so much to guide me but as if he’s trying to hold me, to keep more contact between us. I work my mouth over him, pulling him deep for a few strokes before releasing him completely and licking his tip with my tongue.

  When I pull him deep again, he tugs lightly on my hair. “Shay.”

  I look up at him, increasing my suction. He releases a loud groan and the metal walls around us vibrate.

  He closes his eyes. “Shit, I want to come inside you.”

  I release him and stroke his wet shaft in my fist. “Condom?” The word breaks on my tongue because I want that too.

  He grimaces. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Are you . . . on anything?”

  I bite my lip. It’s so damn tempting. “Yes, but I haven’t been tested since I found out about George’s . . . indiscretions. Until I know I’m healthy, we shouldn’t risk it.”

  Swallowing hard, he nods. “I get it.”

  I grin. He thinks this is over, but I’m not done yet. “Just enjoy letting me live out a teenage fantasy,” I say, and I’m treated to another groan as I take him back in my mouth and suck every bit of pleasure from him I can.

  “What were you going to say earlier?”

  We’re walking back to the main house and the sun is setting. It’s a beautiful evening, but I was reluctant to leave our bubble in the barn.

  He smirks at me. “If you think I can remember anything resembling the English language after what you just did with your tongue . . .”

  I smack his arm, blushing. “Would you hush?” I look around, but we’re out here alone. “Before we went into the barn, I said I liked being your friend, and you acted like you wanted to say something about it. Is this . . . You’d tell me if this was getting too weird for you, right?”

  He reaches for my hand as if he needs the support. I don’t hate it. “Remember how I said my therapist walked me through that exercise?”

  “Yeah.”

  He squeezes my fingers gently. “When I imagined my future, I didn’t just see Jackson Harbor. I saw you.”

  My stomach flips. I saw him too. I was just too scared to say it. I’m still too scared.

  His steps slow, then he stops altogether as he turns to face me. “If you truly want to be my friend and nothing more, I’ll take it and consider myself lucky. But I’m done pretending I’m not in love with you.”

  Can a stomach drop and dance all at once? Because mine is. We’ve never said those words. And now . . . “East.”

  He scrunches up his face and shakes his head. “I screwed this up twice, and while I regret that the way I handled things hurt you, I can’t regret my choices, because now I have Abi. She might not be my blood, but she’s my . . .” He shifts his gaze skyward, and my heart twists as I watch his eyes fill with tears. “She’s my proudest accomplishment.”

  “She’s amazing,” I say. “And so are you, Easton. She’s lucky to have you as a dad.” It’s really just that simple. I love the way he is with her. I love how unequivocally he puts her first. I love . . . him. And now, looking into his eyes while the cool spring breeze whips my hair around my shoulders, I know I’ve loved him forever. Even when my heart was broken and I tried to lock it away to protect it, I never stopped loving him.

  He tilts my chin up and studies my face. “I’ve never felt like I was in a position where I could choose you both, so I made myself stay away. I kept my distance until I could have another chance with you that might actually last. Something solid enough to weather the worst storm. I want that chance, Shayleigh.”

  I want all of that, but I can’t deny this piece of me that hesitates. This cautious bit of my soul that’s sending up a warning signal that we’ve been here before. I’ve believed in the improbable and was crushed. Twice. “Why do you want me, Easton?” It’s only once the question passes my lips that I realize it’s not the first time I
’ve asked. I asked him when we were in Paris.

  “Because of who you are. Because we’re good together.”

  “But why?”

  He grimaces then shakes his head. “I’m not good with the romantic words.”

  I try not to crumble. I don’t want it to matter, but he was doing so well, and I asked and ruined it. “I think you’re better than you believe you are.”

  “You’re the writer.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Do you think I could make the past up to you? Do you think you could love me too?”

  Reaching up, I stroke my fingers across the stubble on his jaw. “Easton, I never stopped loving you.” He dips his head, lowering his mouth toward mine, but I stop him with a fingertip to his lips. “Loving you is part of who I am.”

  He must see the hesitation on my face because the worry doesn’t leave his. “But . . .?”

  “But I’m scared.”

  “Even having decided that you’re not moving? You’re still . . . You don’t trust me.”

  “I don’t trust life. I don’t trust all the things out of our control. Things happen and choices have to be made and . . .”

  “I’ll prove it to you, then.” He nods, and I see his determination in the set of his jaw. “I’ll have to prove you can trust me. That I won’t hurt you again.”

  I press my palms against his chest and rise onto my tiptoes as I slide them up to his shoulders.

  He dips his head, stopping with his lips a breath from mine. “When you pictured your future today . . . could you make any room in there for me?”

  “No, Easton.” I shake my head, and his face drops. “I don’t need to make room because you were already there.”

  He wraps his arms behind my back and lifts me off the ground, crushing my body to his as he kisses me. I kiss him back and try to ignore the nagging feeling that tells me I’ve invited heartache back into my life.

  Shay

  Do doctors’ offices intentionally turn down the heat in rooms where women are wearing these flimsy exam robes? Because as I sit on the edge of the table and wait for my doctor to join me, I’m practically shivering. I think my toes might be turning blue.

  I wrap my arms around myself and sigh. The fact that I’m even here instead of just getting a quick STI panel drawn up at the lab speaks to the magnitude of my hypochondria. Symptoms? Exhaustion. Queasiness. And a side of I-could-fall-asleep-any-fucking-where.

  I’m a doctoral candidate slated to defend her dissertation in less than a month. I don’t need to talk to my doctor. I need a nap. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past few weeks. But even when I made sleep a bigger priority, it didn’t make any difference. And according to the scale on the way in, I’ve lost weight.

  Please don’t be cancer.

  Fear is an icy hand on my lungs.

  There’s a soft knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I call.

  Dr. Hassell steps into the room and closes the door behind her. “How are you, Shayleigh?”

  I smile. I like my doctor. I started working with her in graduate school when the weight loss started destroying my body. It’s so weird. Everyone praised me for getting thin, but it was killing me. My hair was falling out, my periods stopped, and I could see my ribs when I stood naked in front of the mirror. Funny that vanity was the thing that made me finally accept that I had an eating disorder and needed help to overcome it. “I’m . . . tired.” I laugh, since that’s why I’m here. “But I guess you already know that.”

  I expect her to stand behind the room’s laptop and start noting my symptoms, but she doesn’t. Instead, she takes the seat next to the table, sitting sideways so she’s facing me.

  “I know it’s ridiculous to come in for being tired, but I lost my dad to cancer, and my mom’s primary symptom before her diagnosis was fatigue, and—”

  “Shay, it’s understandable.”

  My cheeks heat. “I feel like a hypochondriac.”

  “When was your last period?”

  “A few weeks ago?”

  “And was it a full period or just a little bleeding?”

  I shrug. I’ve been heavy, and I’ve been anorexic. My period was never regular until I got a handle on both and went on the pill. “It was light, I guess. That’s not uncommon for me.” Shit. My eyes instantly fill with unexpected tears. Am I going to have to get a hysterectomy before I’ve even had a chance to start a family? I wipe at my cheeks. “If it’s uterine cancer, do you think . . . will I still be able to have children?”

  Dr. Hassell grabs a tissue from the box on the counter and hands it to me. “Shayleigh, I don’t believe your symptoms are from cancer—uterine or otherwise.”

  I dab my cheeks gently then blow my nose with the grace of a trumpeting elephant. “Sorry. I’m just under a lot of stress right now, and it’s making me emotional.” I force a laugh. “And making me jump to conclusions, apparently. It’s just stress, right? All this . . .?” I wave a hand in front of my face to indicate the hot mess express that I’ve become.

  “Stress could be a contributing factor to your symptoms, but according to the urine sample you gave my nurse, you’re pregnant.”

  I blink at her. “I’m . . . Excuse me? What?”

  Her smile is gentle. “Pregnant.”

  My brain takes so long to make sense of the word that it might as well be from a foreign language. “How could I be . . . I’m not even . . . I’m on the pill. I haven’t missed a period.”

  “Some women continue to have light periods at the beginning of their pregnancies.” She stands to look at her computer. She taps the screen and scrolls through something I assume is my chart. “As for your birth control, of course nothing’s one hundred percent, but the pill can fail if you’re on antibiotics. Have you been prescribed anything for a sinus infection or—”

  I shake my head. “No. No antibiotics. Are you sure? Maybe they mixed up the cups or something?” But even as I say it, I remember the conference in Florida a couple of months ago. I got food poisoning and was sick for days. I rarely forget to take my pill and am sure I didn’t miss it on that trip, but how much good can it do if you can’t keep anything down? “I was sick,” I whisper.

  She gives me a sympathetic nod. “That can happen too.”

  I used condoms for two weeks after that food poisoning. Just in case. But that doesn’t account for the sex I had leading up to my sickness. In fact, before I ate the bad shellfish that made my weekend a total pukefest, it would have been better described as a sexfest. With a married man.

  “I don’t do OB anymore,” she says, “but I can get you a referral if you’d like to continue with the pregnancy or even if you’re not sure yet.”

  “I’m sure,” I say quickly. I understand why she might question it—a single woman with no boyfriend in sight—but of all the things I’ve been questioning about my life as I wrap up my doctorate, my desire to have a family is not one of them. When I visualized my future, I pictured children.

  I just imagined they’d be Easton’s.

  Fresh tears pour from my eyes as I imagine his face when I tell him the news. “Shit,” I whisper. “You must think I’m such an idiot.”

  “Not at all. You had every reason to take the sudden change in your energy levels seriously. And I’m glad you did. We’ll make sure all the lab work looks good too, of course, and send those results over to your OB when you chose one. My staff can get your appointment set up for you.” She taps on her keyboard a few times then hesitates. “Do you . . . have a preference for your obstetrician?”

  “Not my brother,” I blurt. Even if I was ready to drop this bomb on my family—and, hello, I’m not—I wouldn’t want him to be my doctor. I know he’s good at his job, but that’s just weird. My family is close, but not check-your-dilation close.

  “I wouldn’t advise anyone to choose a family member. I’m sure your brother would feel the same.”

  I nod along as she goes through some basic pregn
ancy advice, and I accept the pamphlets she offers. But I’m trapped in my own mind, nausea tearing me apart as I realize I have to tell George I’m pregnant. I have to tell his wife.

  I’ve become the kind of woman I swore I’d never be.

  Shay

  October 15th, seven years ago

  I’ve had months—hell, years—to prepare for this, and there’s still something so surreal about seeing my father in that casket.

  The last days were a slow trudge to a finish line none of us was sure we wanted to see. When he finally crossed and we saw the end to his pain, we were all . . . relieved. We’ve grieved, we will continue to grieve, but death itself was welcome.

  After a four-hour visitation, my feet are screaming and my fingers ache from all the consoling handshakes. I just want to go home to Mom’s place and curl up on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate, like I’m a kid wrapping up a particularly hard day of school and not a grown woman who’s about to bury her father.

  “Almost done,” Mom says next to me, flashing me a shaky smile.

  I nod. Almost done. Then tomorrow, we’ll return for the service and put my father in the ground. My throat thickens at the thought.

  It’s been a day of whispers and respectful silence, but I straighten when the whispers change, when they seem to roll through the room and heads turn toward the door . . . where Easton Connor has appeared and is hugging Carter with the fierceness of an old friend who understands your heartache better than anyone.

  I didn’t know Easton was coming. I didn’t ask. Didn’t even think about him until now.

  A shiver races up my arms at the sight of him. He looks so impossibly broad in his black suit, but my mind instantly strips it off him, remembering the sight of him under me in his hotel room, the feel of his rough hands on my thighs as I rode him.

  Mom squeezes my hand. “You’re flushed. Do you need to sit down?”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s almost over.”

  Slowly, Easton works his way through my family members, inching closer to us with each condolence.