Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I swallow the lump in my throat, faced again with how much I lost when I fucked up with her. But even with the horrible ache of that knowledge, I can’t regret going down the path that gave me Abi. “I’ve had a thing for Shay for a long time too.” It’s ridiculous that I’ve never admitted that to anyone other than Shay herself. Carter only knew I couldn’t keep my eyes off his sister. He didn’t understand that there was more to it than a gut-level physical attraction.
“Is that what this is?” Jake asks. “This is all about you having feelings for my sister?”
I rock back on my heels. “Strong feelings.” Those words are too weak, so I try again. “I like Shay. A lot.”
He looks me up and down. “Good. Because you’re a pretty big dude, and I don’t know if I’d survive if I tried to kick your ass, but I’d have to try if you were using my baby sister for sex.”
Me using her for sex? I think you might have that backward, Jake. “I want something real with her. A relationship. I’ve wanted that for years, and now the time is finally right, but it might be too late. I’m doing everything I can to convince her to give me a chance.”
Jake nods. “Okay. But from here on out, please exclude fucking in my office from your list of everything you can.” He shudders. “I can’t unhear that.”
“Got it.”
“I trust you not to hurt her,” he says, which is a bigger kick in the nuts than he realizes. “Now, excuse me. I need to find a neurologist to cut the memories of tonight from my brain.”
Shay
I baked. I don’t remember the last time I let myself make anything with sugar and flour—high school? Maybe middle school?
I used to bake with Mom all the time. I loved it, loved the feel of sweet, buttery treats melting on my tongue, fresh out of the oven. And my love for it showed around my stomach and hips.
But last night when I couldn’t sleep, I got out of bed and made chocolate chip cookies for Easton and his daughter. Because nothing says “sorry about the hate-fuck” like a plate of baked goods.
The trip to Oklahoma was a bust. I knew from the moment they picked me up from the airport that the job wasn’t a good fit for me. I don’t have a good explanation—just that it didn’t feel right. They said they’d contact me with their decision in May, but I already know I won’t leave my family for that position. If George wants to judge me for that, so be it.
I park my car by Easton’s Lakeview Drive home and grab the tray of cookies from the passenger seat with shaking hands. I feel a little bit like some sweet suburban housewife welcoming the new family to the neighborhood. I’ve rehearsed my speech in my head a dozen times. “I know I wasn’t very welcoming when you were in town, and I’m sorry. If you’re living in Jackson Harbor, you’ll be part of my life, and I want us to be friends.”
“Friends” might be a stretch. I don’t think I can be friends with Easton Connor. It might physically hurt too much. But my behavior during his last visit left a bad feeling in my stomach. I’m not proud of myself.
Taking a deep breath, I walk up his front steps and knock on the door.
I braced myself for Easton’s anger or his disarming charm. I braced myself to maybe see him shirtless or in a business suit.
I did not brace myself for the bright-eyed twenty-something beauty who answers the door.
“Can I help you?” she asks. She’s in a T-shirt that’s cut off just above her navel and a pair of fitted shorts that cover less than the panties I’m currently wearing beneath my jeans. Her hair is in a high ponytail, her eyes are bright, and her smile is . . . perfect.
I am such an idiot.
I stumble back a step. “I think . . . Sorry, I . . . Wrong house.” I’m such a liar. This is definitely the right house. Not only did I confirm the address with Ellie before I came, but everyone in this town knows what house belongs to future NFL Hall of Famer Easton Connor.
I turn on my heel and rush down the steps, still carrying the goddamn tray of cookies. I’m enough of a mess that I might eat these things if I weren’t in some sort of chronic state of vague illness lately. This stress is gonna be the death of me if even cookies don’t sound good.
I run smack into a bare-chested Easton, and the cookies fly everywhere. Good thing I wasn’t counting on a binge. “Shit. Sorry. Fuck.” Busted.