If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Easton

The last time I was in the Jackson Brews bar, it was a hole in the wall, bordering on a dive bar. At the

time, Jake was trying to turn it into something more. I can’t say I totally understood his vision at the

time, but the transformation he’s created here is phenomenal.

Despite the snow outside, every booth in the bar is full. Patrons crowd around the tables, mingle at

high-tops set around the pool tables, and lean against any free space at the bar. Waitstaff bustle about

in jeans and red Jackson Brews T-shirts, and I nearly do a spit take when I see the back of one.

Jackson Brews

The bar, the beer, and oh Lord . . . the BROTHERS!

I spot Jake behind the bar, his messy skater hair hanging over one eye. I grab a stool just as its

occupant leaves. “Nice place, Jake.”

He grins at me. “I forgot how long it’s been for you. You probably haven’t been here since . . .” The

amusement fades from his face. “Probably Dad’s funeral, huh?”

“I didn’t make it over here during that trip,” I say, still taking it all in. Even the ritzy bars in Laguna smell

a little like stale beer, but this place is sparkling. The pride in his ownership is evident. “I should’ve

made the time. Seriously. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Jake waves away my apology. “Don’t give it another thought. What can I get you? Beer? Food?”

I glance at the chalkboard menus over his head. “How’s the Jackson Haze?”

“Well, it’s one of mine, so it’s excellent, of course. You like hazy IPAs?”

“I do. Let me try that one.”

“Got it.” He pours my beer and listens to a waitress from the floor rattle off an order for her table. This

place isn’t all that’s evolved. Jake has too. The whole family has.

“I can’t believe you and Ava ended up together. I think she spent more time at your house when we

were growing up than I did.” I shake my head. “I thought you two would never see what was right in

front of you.”

“I’m the luckiest ass you’ll ever meet,” he says, and I can see in his eyes that he means it.

I see another waitress wearing a BROTHERS T-shirt. She slides into a booth with a group of women—

no, she can’t be a waitress. Unless she’s on a break or something? “What’s up with the T-shirts?”

Jake plops a coaster on the counter in front of me and sets my beer on it. “The girls thought those up

one night after they’d had too many drinks. The customers love them. Brayden hates them.”

Brayden was always the uber-responsible Jackson brother. “Who are ‘the girls’?”

“You know, all our . . .” He waves a hand.

“Your women?”

“More or less, but Shay is among their ranks and would punch me if she heard me describe them that

way, so I was trying to come up with a better descriptor.”

I grin. “Of course she would.” And since I came here hoping to run into her, it’s all I can do not to scan

the bar again at the mention of her name. I accused her of giving me the silent treatment, and she

proved she wasn’t. What I should’ve said was she was shutting me out. Because she is. She has for

years. I fucking let her because it was easier than facing the fact that my decisions hurt her.

I sip my beer, not tasting it when I’m so busy thinking about Shay. How did I forget the way her eyes

seem to pull me under? How did I forget the way she can use that smart mouth of hers to take control

of any situation?

“What do you think?” Jake asks.

I snap my head up. “What?”

Jake folds his arms. “The beer?”

I have no idea. “It’s great. Really smooth, Jake. Well done.”

He smiles. “Thanks. I’m pretty happy with this one.”

I take a breath and a chance. “Jake . . .”

He arches a brow, waiting. “Easton?”

Fuck it. What do I have to lose? “Is Shay seeing anyone?”

He shakes his head. “Not that I know of. Why? . . . Oh, fuck.” His lips twitch. “You still have the hots for

my little sister?”

Jake knew about it too? I must’ve done an even worse job hiding it than I thought. “To say the least,” I

mutter.

“I would’ve thought thirteen years in L.A. and all those actresses and models in your bed would’ve

cured you of that.”

“One actress and one model,” I say. But it wouldn’t matter if there were a hundred of each. I’m pretty

sure this thing I feel for Shay is incurable. “Did Carter tell you or Shay?”

“Carter told me that you— Wait. Shay knows?”

“Shay knows what?”

Speak of the devil. My skin tingles at the sound of that voice, and I slowly turn to see Shay striding

toward the bar. The sight of her steals the breath from my lungs. She looked beautiful this morning in a

T-shirt and jeans, but tonight, her legs are on display. Her little black dress clings to the luscious curves

of her ass, and her pink sweater brings out the color in her cheeks. She’s fucking irresistible—even

when her eyes flash with annoyance at the sight of me and she braces her hands on her hips like she’s

preparing for battle.

Jake looks between me and his sister, then shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not touching this.”

She arches a brow. “Shay knows what?”

“You know that I think you’re beautiful,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “At least, I think you know.”

Something like hurt flashes across her face, but she shakes it away and turns to her brother. “I need

the biggest fucking martini you’ve ever served, and I need it now.”

“Okay then,” Jake says.

“Bad day?” I can’t help smiling, because she’s here. I can tell the feeling isn’t mutual, but my day just

got a hell of a lot better.

“Weird night,” she mutters. Shaking her head, she steps behind the bar. “Never mind, Jake. I think this

calls for more than vodka.”

Jake steps back, clearly smart enough to know when Shay’s on a mission and he needs to get out of

her way. “Do you want to talk about it or—”

“No.” In a series of jerky motions, she grabs vodka, Baileys, Godiva, and Kahlua from the shelf.

Jake grimaces as she pours shots of each into a martini shaker. “What the hell are you making?”

“A martini.”

“Yeah, I guessed as much,” he mutters. “But what the hell kind of martini is that?”

“It’s called And the Kitchen Sink. Star made them at her annual fundraiser for the women’s shelter. It’s

a dessert martini. I only had a sip of Nic’s because I was afraid of the calories, but I’ve decided fuck it.” She ducks down and pulls open the fridge under the bar. “Do we have any heavy cream?”

Jake’s brows have totally disappeared under his messy hair. “Who are you, and what did you do with

my calorie-conscious sister?”

Shay sighs dramatically and grabs her martini shaker, disappearing into the kitchen.

We both watch the door, waiting for her to return. When she does, she’s capped off the martini shaker

and is shaking it so hard her tits bounce—not that I’m looking.

Jake cautiously grabs a martini glass off the shelf and hands it to her.

“Don’t judge until you try it,” she says, pouring.

“But I don’t want diabetes,” he says with a grimace.

“Whatever. Suit yourself.” The glass is filled to the rim when she pulls the shaker away, and she sighs,

satisfied. But then she just stands there and stares at it.

“Are you going to try it?” Jake asks.

“Of course I am.”

“Okay, because it looks like you were just going to admire it all night.”

She bites her bottom lip, pulling off some of her pink gloss. Her hand shakes as she brings the glass to

her lips. I wonder if Jake sees it too. I wonder if he, like me, knows this is what happens before she

melts down. But maybe not anymore. She said she’s changed, and after seven years without seeing

her face, I can’t claim to know shit.

Jake ducks his head and whispers something in her ear, and I know he sees it too—is probably offering

to go somewhere and talk with her, if I had to guess. I’ve missed this family and their closeness, the

way they can fight like rabid dogs one minute and have each other’s backs the next.

Shay shakes her head. “I’m a little stressed. It’s fine. I just need to self-medicate for a minute.”

Jake gives her one last long look and nods before disappearing into the kitchen.

God must be smiling down on me today, because sometime during Shay’s martini-making production,

the guy who was sitting next to me cleared out, leaving cash for Jake.

I nod to the vacant barstool. “Sit here, Shayleigh. We’ll self-medicate together. Unless you are giving

me the silent treatment, that is.”

I wait for it—that smile of hers that makes me believe that somehow everything will be okay, the

comforting stillness of sitting next to her, the warmth of her laughter. Hell, it’s been too long since I’ve

heard that sound, since I’ve watched joy blossom on her face and felt like maybe I was born to put it

there. I’ve missed her.

Except Shay doesn’t flash me her smile or sit by me. She certainly doesn’t laugh. She slides her sweet

concoction in front of me and says, “On the house. I have to get out of here.”

“I thought you needed a drink.”

When she meets my eyes, I’m taken back to Paris, to my hotel room in Chicago, to her bedroom out at

the lake and the hundred other times she met my eyes and I felt like Superman. “I was wrong.” She

turns around, but instead of leaving through the front, she ducks out from behind the bar and stomps

off to the bathroom.

I get it. I fucked up with her. Fucked up phenomenally. But how am I supposed to apologize when she

won’t even talk to me?

I slide off my stool and follow her. She’s standing at the sink, arms braced on the counter, head bowed.

“Shay?”

She rolls her neck and sighs. “Easton, this is the women’s room.”

I nudge the door shut behind me and flip the lock. “I noticed.” I fold my arms. “I saw my chance and

took it.”

She draws in a long breath. “Your chance for what? Creepy bathroom stalking?”

“My chance to talk to you alone. You’re avoiding me.”

Her eyes flash. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“Are you sure about that?” I stalk toward her. The pull to her is magnetic, and it’s a miracle I’ve kept my

distance this long. Hell, it’s a miracle I ever let her go to begin with. “I can think of a lot of things we

could talk about. Should we start with Paris or Chicago? Or maybe we should start with New Year’s

Eve out at the lake?”

“None of the above.” She turns to me, her expression resigned as she leans a hip against the counter.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”

“You missed me? Is this some alternate-facts shit? Because last I checked, you had my number. You

could’ve called or sent me a fucking text message. You weren’t missing me. You were living your life.” Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

“I hated myself for missing you. I thought I needed to make it work with Scarlett.” I swallow and step

closer. The truth burns my throat, searing off a piece of my pride. “I thought I could do it if you weren’t a

choice. I thought I could get over you. I was wrong about all of it. No amount of time can change the

way I feel about you.”

Her breath catches. “Easton—”

I slide my hand into her hair and skim my thumb across her bottom lip. “There wasn’t a single day that

went by that I didn’t think about you.”

I lower my mouth to hers before she can reply. The first touch of my lips to hers, and everything snaps

into place for me. This is what I want—where I want to be, where I belong. Her lips part on a gasp. I

touch my tongue to hers, and she presses her palm to my chest.

“Fuck you.” She shoves me back—hard—and I stumble. “I didn’t say you could do that.”

Shaking my head, I force myself to back away another step. I didn’t come in here intending to touch

her, and with my recklessness, she’s even less likely to talk to me.

She lifts her chin, her eyes blazing with anger I totally deserve. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m not single? Did it ever occur to you that I might have a boyfriend? That maybe I haven’t spent the last

seven years waiting around for you?” She folds her arms, disgust clear in the curl of her lip. “You are so

self-centered.”

I shove my hands into my pockets so they don’t get me in trouble. My pride is bruised as fuck, but this

conversation isn’t over. “It did occur to me. That’s why I asked Jake. He said you weren’t seeing

anyone.”

“So Jake is an expert in my love life now? You think he knows about every guy I’ve dated? Every man

I’ve taken to bed?” She huffs out a breath. “Even if I were single—which, sorry to disappoint you when

you’re stuck in Jackson Harbor with no one else to fuck, I’m not—how egotistical do you have to be to

assume I’d want to climb back into bed with you?”

There’s so much happening in that sentence that I’m not even sure where to start. Maybe I am self-

centered, because I start with the part that hurts the most. “You are seeing someone.”

She folds her arms protectively across her middle. “Yeah.”

“It can’t be that serious if you haven’t introduced him to your family.”

“Don’t make assumptions about my life.”

“Do you love him?”

There’s something else in her expression—pain? Awkwardness? I can’t tell. “It’s complicated.”

I step forward and lift a hand, but I stop myself, turning around gripping the doorknob before I make the

mistake of touching her again. I feel her eyes on my back. “I never expected you to wait for me. You

deserved better than that.” When I look at her over my shoulder, her expression is tight, her chest

heaving like it would have if I’d had the chance to finish that kiss. “I stayed away because you deserved

better than me.”