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 blow out a breath. “I’m sorry I’m distracted. It’s not about you.”
“Shay . . .” He takes my hand and toys with my fingers. “You can trust me with whatever’s going on in your head. I don’t scare off easily.”
But everything in my head is awful. My head is full of a laundry list of Easton’s qualities and all the ways George. . . isn’t him. “Did you know Easton Connor is moving back to Jackson Harbor?” I can tell by George’s baffled expression that he has no idea who Easton is. That makes me laugh. “Easton Connor, the quarterback? Two-time Super Bowl MVP?”
George wrinkles his nose and shrugs. He’s adorable, and normally a show of NFL ignorance would be a point in his favor, because it means never having to answer all the crazy fan questions about what it was like to grow up with Easton. Tonight it irritates me. And the fact that I’m irritated is irritating. I blame Easton for it all. He’s like a drug. He messes with my brain on a chemical level.
“Easton Connor is an NFL player who grew up in Jackson Harbor,” I explain patiently. “He was best friends with my brother Carter growing up, and he was at brunch today.”
George tilts his head to the side. “Okay . . .”
I look away. I don’t want to admit my complicated past with Easton to anyone, but sharing it with an academic who sneers at professional athletes is really high on my list of do not want. “We haven’t seen each other in years, and it’s messed with me a little.”
“You’re struggling because you’ve reconnected with your brother’s childhood best friend?” he asks. “Or you’re struggling because he used to be something to you?”
“He was never anything to me,” I blurt. Way too defensive. “Not officially, at least.”
“He hurt you?”
I feel like that description is simultaneously too harsh and too weak. “Yes, but he never intended to. He was hard to get over.”
“Your first love?”
My eyes fill with hot tears. Totally unexpected and even more unacceptable. Stupid emotions. “I don’t know if I’d use that word.” Though with Easton, there’s no other word that comes close to what I felt. “My family never knew.”
He cocks his head to the side. George really is a grade-A listener. “Why was it a secret?”
Because it wasn’t real? Because Carter would’ve killed him? Because I wasn’t enough to make it worth telling the truth? “It was never really a thing, but a . . .” I shrug.
“He slept with you and you fell for him, but nothing came of it.”
Wincing at that painfully accurate summary, I shrug again. Excellent communicating, Shayleigh.
“And then he left for the NFL and forgot about you?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Not exactly. We . . . reconnected a couple of times over the years.”
“Let me guess—when you were convenient.”
It’s not a question so much as an assumption, and I don’t fully understand why it cuts so deep. Because it feels too accurate, or because George can’t imagine me being something more than a convenient diversion to someone like Easton?
George nods slowly, taking my lack of response as confirmation. “Does he know how you felt about him?”
“I think so.” I thought he felt the same, and then he was just a young guy desperately trying to do the right thing. I had to let him go. “It’s not a big deal, but it’s something I need to process.”
“Are you sure that’s all?” He reaches across the table and runs a fingertip over my knuckles. The touch should be comforting, but I want to shake him off. I’m such a mess.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, should I be worried that you’re going to throw away a bright future for this guy?”
“No. Of course not. That’s not why I . . .” I shake my head. I’m not even sure what future he’s referring to. My career, or my relationship with him? Surely the former, right? “I’ve just been thinking about the past. I’m fine. I’m not looking to reunite with Easton, I promise.”
He squeezes my hand. “Good.” He nods to my plate. “Are you done?”
The smell of my favorite pasta carbonara turns my stomach tonight, but George had ordered my usual for me by the time I arrived, and I didn’t want to be rude. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
Standing, he pulls out his wallet and throws cash on the table to cover our meal. He leads me from my seat and cups my jaw in both hands, kissing me long and full and . . . Damn. This is why I fell into bed with him that first time. He can listen, and he can kiss. I never thought I’d find myself in a relationship like this, and yet here I am, sneaking around. It’s not that what we’re doing is against the rules, but it’s certainly frowned upon. At the very least, it will make people think twice about my accomplishment when I finally get my doctorate.