Prelude Shay I was seven when I fell in love with Easton Connor. He was four years older than me and best friends with my brother Carter, but that didn’t matter to me. I never thought of him as too old back then. Never thought of him as off-limits. When I fell off my bike while racing down the street after my brothers, it was Easton who circled back to help me. Easton who took me inside, helped me clean the bits of gravel out of my knee, and then dabbed it with hydrogen peroxide. Easton who turned my tears into laughter by telling me about Carter’s inability to speak every time he saw his crush in class. I decided right then that I was going to marry Easton. Because I was seven and didn’t understand the realities of romantic love. Because Easton hadn’t yet become the Easton Connor. Because I hadn’t hit puberty and become chubby Shay. Because I still believed in fairytales, I believed I would marry this boy with the light brown hair and blue-green eyes. It was my secret. One I vowed to keep to myself until the time was right. Easton didn’t know my plans. And I had no idea he’d break my heart. *** Shay April 27th, draft night, thirteen years ago “Shay!” Easton hoists a shot glass in the air and wriggles it in offering. “Tequila? What do you say?” Carter spins on him and frowns. “What the fuck, man? Don’t give my little sister alcohol.” “Shit, sorry,” Easton says, but his mischievous eyes are on me as he says, “I always forget she’s so young.” The tequila must be going to his head, because there’s no other explanation for the way he’s looking at me. His eyes drop to my mouth, and warmth spreads through me. If I didn’t know better, I might think that . . . No. That doesn’t make sense. This is Easton. My friend now, sure, but East is everything. Girls everywhere are crazy about him—a football star on the brink of NFL fame, he could have any woman he wanted. Carter grabs a beer and leaves the kitchen and pushes out the back door to join the party. And then it’s just me and Easton. Alone with a bottle of tequila and the full shot glass that’s still in his hand. He flashes a glance over his shoulder toward the back door. “Does Carter have any idea that you’re not a little girl anymore?” he asks, closing the distance between us. I bite my bottom lip. My skin flushes hot when he’s this close, and I swear he’s looking at my lips again. Do I have something on my face? Spaghetti sauce from dinner or something? I discreetly wipe my mouth with the cuff of my sweatshirt—or as discreetly as I can when he’s so close. Easton grins, as if he knows he’s making me uncomfortable and likes it. “Have you ever done this before?” A thousand possibilities fly through my mind at that question—most of them involving the hands and mouth of the man asking. “Done what?” He lifts the shot glass and sniffs the tequila. “A snakebite. Salt, tequila, lime.” I shrug. I’ve had alcohol before. My family isn’t exactly puritanical when it comes to alcohol. But I’ve never done a shot, and certainly never a snakebite. Whatever that is. “How do you do it?” Grinning, he hands me the shot glass then grabs the salt shaker from the counter. He lifts my free hand to his mouth and licks the inside of my wrist. My breath whooshes out of me at the sensation of his hot tongue on my skin. I want to close my eyes, but he’s watching me, and I’m afraid he’ll laugh if he has any idea what affect he has on me. Grinning, he sprinkles salt on the wet patch of skin before putting the shaker down and grabbing a wedge of lime from the counter behind me. “Lick the salt. Take the shot. Suck on the lime.” “Lick, shoot, suck.” I nod. “I can do that.” His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate, turning those blue-green eyes dark. “I think I’d like to see you try.” I swallow hard. Is Easton Connor coming on to me? I don’t want to be the idiot who believes that could be true. I don’t want to be the dumb fat girl who fell for the practical joke because she believed a guy like Easton could be attracted to her. I don’t know how long I stand there trying to decide, but my skin tingles where he licked, and my mouth has gone dry. “Want me to go first?” he asks, his voice a little husky. I nod. He takes my wrist and brings it to his mouth, licking off the salt. Shocks of pleasure roll down my spine and settle into a riot of butterflies in my stomach. He doesn’t even take the shot glass from me, just wraps his hand around mine and leads the glass to his mouth so he can shoot it back. Then he pops the lime in his mouth and makes a goofy face at me as he sucks the juice. “Got it?” he asks, still squinting from the sourness. “I think I can do that.” He refills the tequila then looks over his shoulder again. “Why are you so worried about Carter seeing?” I ask. “He knows I’ve had alcohol before. He’s just being a prude about the shot.” “I don’t want him pissed at me,” he says, shrugging. “God knows he did worse than take a couple of shots when he was sixteen, but—” “I’m seventeen. Eighteen in a few months.” He slowly turns his attention away from the back door and back to me. “My timing is shit.” “Timing for what?” His eyes are so intense on mine, but it’s a good kind of intensity. Like he sees me. Has anyone ever looked at me before? Really looked? “Nothing.” He lets out a puff of air and shakes his head. “Then Carter really would kill me.” I laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” “What? Why do you say that?” “You just got drafted into the NFL, and you’re acting like you’re attracted to me.” His gaze skims over me, from my hair all the way down to my bare feet and the bright pink polish on my toes. “What does one have to do with the other?” I don’t understand what’s happening here. Am I dreaming? Has he had more to drink than I realized? I throw the shot back before I can lose my nerve, totally forgetting the salt. I shudder. “That’s awful!” He laughs. “You did it wrong. Are you always this terrible with directions?” Only when you’re here. Only when you’re looking at me like this and making me think I can have things I can’t. But as awful as the taste was, warmth blooms in my chest. It’s more intense than the effects of the glass of wine I drank with Easter dinner, and I do like that. “Now I risk getting you drunk if I make you do it the right way.” “I’m not drunk.” I shake my head. “I don’t feel anything.” He grunts. “Give it a minute.” He steps around me and stands at the counter, pouring himself another shot. I guess he’s not going to drink it from my glass this time. It’s dumb to be disappointed. He doesn’t bother with the salt or lime, just throws it back. Doesn’t even grimace. Then he braces his arms on the counter and hangs his head. I’d have to be emotionally stunted not to feel the change in his mood. He just went from playful flirt to morose jock in the span of a blink. “What’s wrong?” He shrugs. “Nothing.” “Liar.” He drags a hand through his hair and finally turns to me. He leans back against the counter. “Can you keep a secret?” “Of course.” He hesitates a beat, and I see the emotions playing across his face—he’s trying to decide if he can trust me with this, or if he even wants to own up to whatever it is. “I never told anyone when I caught you with that dirty magazine when you were thirteen.” His eyes widen and he grins. “Oh, fuck. I’d completely forgotten about that. Jesus.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fair enough. That kind of discretion so young is definitely meaningful.” “Meaningful? Are you kidding me? That’s preteen blackmail gold, and I never used it. Not even when you wouldn’t dump that girl you took to senior prom.” His forehead wrinkles, and I can tell he’s trying to remember his date. “Hilary,” I remind him. “I didn’t know you wanted me to dump her.” “I didn’t realize I needed to spell it out for you. I told you she was a bitch and you deserved better.” “Honestly, I was eighteen, and she was hot and willing. I probably didn’t care that she was a bitch.” “She called me a fat tagalong.” “What?” The tops of his ears turn pink—a tell I learned long ago means he’s angry. “You never told me that.” I shrug. When Easton was with Hilary, I was fourteen. I’d foolishly believed that he wouldn’t notice I was fat if no one ever told him. Not the dumbest thing I’ve let myself believe in the name of loving him, but not a delusion I’m particularly proud of either. “You’re not fat,” he says. I fold my arms and arch a brow. “Come on, Easton. I might be naive and shamefully inexperienced for a girl my age, but my eyes work just fine.” He holds up a finger. “One, so do mine, and you’re not fat. You’re not skinny. You have a nice body.” A nice body. The words are both the balm and the blade. On the one hand, I’m intelligent and rational enough to know I should be glad he thinks of my body in better terms than I do. Intellectually, I know nice is as good as it’s going to get for a girl like me. On the other hand, part of me wanted to believe I saw heat in his eyes earlier. As irrational as it is, I want to believe he might think I’m beautiful, even while I know I’d never believe it if he used those words. Emotions are dumb. He holds up another finger. “And two, I’m going to need you to tell me what you mean by shamefully inexperienced.” “Absolutely not.” “Please?” My face is on fire. Why did I say that? I would be fine if no one ever knew the extent of my innocence, but Easton is the last person I want to admit it to. “Forget I said anything.” He steps closer. “I’ll tell you my secret if you tell me yours.” “You go first,” I blurt. Because who am I kidding? Anyone who had to guess would know I’ve never kissed anyone. It’s not like I’ve ever had a boyfriend. His eyes soften and something like pain flashes over his features for a beat. “I wish the Demons hadn’t drafted me.” I don’t know what I expected him to say, but that came out of left field. Easton’s dreamed of the NFL his whole life, and tonight we’re celebrating him being selected in the first freaking round of the draft. Now he’s telling me that achieving this lifelong dream is what has him down. “Why’d you enter the draft if you didn’t want to be picked up? Carter said you could’ve waited until next year and finished school.” “I wanted to be drafted. I suck at school and I . . .” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I wanted to be drafted, but I was hoping Chicago or Detroit would draft me. I’m scared to move so far from home. Which I realize is dumb, but . . .” “It’s not dumb.” Easton had his pick of colleges, and he went to Starling College in Grand Rapids. They have a good football team, but he could have gone to Florida or LSU—teams whose football programs are practically NFL breeding grounds. I figured it was because he wanted to stay close to home, but it never occurred to me that those preferences would hold true three years later. Only, this time the choice is out of his hands. “You can visit, though, right? A contract that big means you can fly home as often as you want.” His gaze locks on his feet. “Right. Of course. It’s stupid, I know.” “It’s really not.” “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to come across like the ungrateful rookie or like I’m too immature to handle the move.” “I promise.” I squeeze his wrist, but I’m suddenly all too aware of the fact that I’m touching him. His skin is warm under my fingertips. I can feel his strength and the power of his big hands. How many times have I imagined those hands on me? I jerk away, but he grabs my hand before I can get far. “It’s your turn,” he says, threading his fingers through mine. What is he doing? “Why do you think you’re shamefully inexperienced, Shayleigh? Your friends aren’t pressuring you to have sex, are they?” Sex. Oh my God. He thought I meant sex. Now my dumb secret feels even more mortifying, but he’s still holding my hand, and even as embarrassment warms my cheeks, I don’t want him to let go. “No one’s pressuring me.” The back door clangs closed as Carter pushes into the kitchen. Easton jumps back and drops my hand. “What are you two talking about in here?” my brother asks. He crosses the kitchen between us and opens the fridge. “Don’t you know the party’s outside?” Easton’s throat bobs and he tucks his hands in his pockets. “We’re just catching up.” Carter pulls out another beer and uses the opener on the wall to pull off the cap. “Well, I hope you’re finished, because people are starting to wonder if you already moved to L.A. or something.” “Relax, Carter,” I tell him. “The night is young.” He frowns as he looks back and forth between me and Easton. “I don’t like you two being alone in here together.” I snort and for the millionth time in my life wonder what it would be like to not have five overly protective brothers. “Why not?” Carter stares at Easton for a long beat. Easton gives a subtle shake of his head and Carter sighs. “Because you’re my little sister, and this punk breaks hearts in his sleep.” “My heart is fine.” Liar, liar. Does Carter know how I feel about Easton? I’ve never told anyone. “We’re just talking.” Carter taps Easton’s arm with the neck of his beer. “You. Outside. We’re celebrating your news, after all. And anyway, that redhead Tri-Delt showed up and is looking for you.” Easton heads toward the back with my brother. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” He opens the door and turns back to wink at me before heading toward the lakeside bonfire with my brother. I guess Easton doesn’t want to know my secret after all. I dodged a bullet. So why do I feel so disappointed?
Easton “You have to fucking stop.” Carter stomps away from the house and toward the bonfire blazing on the beach. “Stop what?” “I already told you she’s off-limits.” The Jackson brothers have been telling me for years that their sister is off-limits. It just didn’t matter until last summer. I’d been busy with school and hadn’t seen Shayleigh in months when I came out to the Jackson family cabin with Carter. Shay was here and suddenly she was . . . more. It’s not like I didn’t know she was pretty before. She’s always been pretty. She’s also always been really fucking special to me. Something about Shay brings me peace when I need it the most. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who can chill my anxiety just by sitting next to me. But sometime between when I’d seen her at Christmas and when I came out here last summer, she went from the pretty-but-quiet little sister of my best friend to the kind of beautiful it’s hard to look away from. Or maybe it happened long before last summer, and the swimsuit brought it to my attention. Because Shayleigh Jackson in a swimsuit, with her long legs, soft thighs, and full breasts—no idea when that happened. She wasn’t simply the Jackson sister anymore. She was a fucking siren, and I was going to drown trying to resist her. With her dark hair falling around her shoulders and that wide smile and easy laugh, how could I not notice? And I noticed a few too many times, because Carter caught me staring and tore into me. Carter looks to the house then to me, and I can practically see him calculating the pros and cons of locking his sister away to protect her virtue. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt her,” I say. Carter grunts. “Somehow, that’s not comforting.” He sighs. “She’s seventeen.” “I know.” “And you’re moving to California next month.” “I know.” “She’s so smart, East. She’s only a junior, and she’s already got colleges chasing her. Did you know she’s fluent in French?” Did you know she’s incredibly fucking insecure and has no idea what her value is? I don’t ask. I know I shouldn’t be the man to show her just how beautiful she is, but I want to be anyway. “Does she . . . does she have a boyfriend?” I ask. Carter’s glare would melt a lesser man, but I turn up my palms. “I’m not asking your permission to take her virginity. I’m asking if she has a boyfriend. This is normal conversation.” “I can’t believe you just said that,” he growls. “What?” “I don’t even want you thinking about my sister’s virginity.” “Again, I’m asking about a boyfriend.” “No. She doesn’t. She’s too focused on school to date, I think.” Or she’s too convinced that she’s . . . What did Hilary call her? A fat tagalong? Jesus. If I’d known, I never would have let that fly. Carter studies me. “Why?” One word, hundreds of warnings. I shrug. “Just curious how much she tells you.” Carter frowns. “Wait. What’s that supposed to mean? Do you know something? Does she have a boyfriend?” “You really are the protective big brother cliché.” I press my palm between his shoulder blades and give him a good shove toward the beach. “The party is waiting.” As I suspected, it’s less than fifteen minutes until Carter is completely distracted and I can head back to the house without him noticing. I used the time to circulate and listen to everyone’s congrats. Carter’s right. I should be out there. This is my celebration. Lifelong dream accomplished. But there’s only one person I want to celebrate with. One person with killer soft curves and a beautiful smile who owes me a secret. Shay’s not in the kitchen where we left her. Did she go down to the bonfire and I missed her? I check the basement. Nothing. I head back to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge, ready to give up. Then I hear the screech of old pipes and realize a shower is shutting off. Grinning, I stride toward the stairs and climb to the second floor. By the time Shay pushes out of the bathroom in a puff of steam, I’m leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded. She jumps. “Jesus, Easton. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I don’t answer. My own heart is having some issues. Mainly, it’s racing like it’s trying to force me forward with its momentum—toward her. I did not think this through. She’s in a fluffy light blue robe. It’s tied at the waist but gapes open at her chest, giving me a view of the swell of her cleavage. Her wet hair is combed out of her face and falls in light waves down her back. It would be so easy to tug on the waistband of her robe, to pull her to me and slide my hands inside, to cup her breasts and lower my mouth to hers. Easy, but a fucking death sentence. “Easton!” She tugs the top of her robe tighter. “Ohmygod. Were you just looking at my breasts?” I take a deep breath and drag my gaze back up to meet hers. “I love that you call them breasts.” “What else am I supposed to call them?” I shrug. “Most girls your age would dodge calling them anything at all. Or maybe vaguely refer to their chest.” “I think you’re wrong. I’m not twelve anymore.” I hope my arched brow conveys the obviously I’m not allowed to say. She swallows. “And, well . . . I guess I’m not afraid of words.” What are you afraid of? It’s a question I won’t ask. Not when it would invite her to turn it back on me. I don’t want to talk about my fears any further than I did in the kitchen. Not tonight. Not when she’s so close and soon she’ll be so damn far away. I didn’t anticipate it would bother me so much, but the realization eats away at my gut. “That’s good,” I say. “Because you owe me a few.” She blinks. “What do I owe you?” “Words.” “Must you speak in riddles?” “Your secret. I told you mine, so now it’s your turn.” Her face pales, and I wonder just how innocent she is that she doesn’t want to talk about it. “You already guessed it. I’m gonna go get dressed.” She turns toward her room, and I grab her wrist to stop her. “We can do this one of two ways,” I say, and she slowly turns back to face me. “You can just tell me, which would be fair, since that was our deal. Or”—I lift the beer I grabbed from the fridge—“we can play a game.” She studies the bottle. “What kind of game?” “Never Have I Ever.” She snorts and folds her arms. “Seriously? As I mentioned a minute ago, I’m not twelve anymore.” I turn up the palm of my free hand, moving it up and down opposite the beer in the other hand, as if I’m weighing them against each other. “Your choice.” “Fine, the game, but I’m getting dressed first.” “If you must,” I say. I can’t stop grinning. Damn it. She does that to me. I wait in the hall while she disappears into her bedroom, my eyes fixed on the door the whole time. Carter would definitely kick my ass if he knew I was about to play a drinking game with his little sister. But it’s not like we’re playing with tequila. One beer split between the two of us can’t get me in too much trouble. That said, if she’s as innocent as she claims, I’ll be the one doing most of the drinking. A minute later, and the door swings open. Shay’s gotten dressed, but she’s not in her normal clothes. She’s wearing pajamas. These aren’t the kind of pajamas that are meant to seduce—they’re gray cotton. A long-sleeved T-shirt with a lace cutout down each arm, and matching shorts that show just enough leg to remind me there’s more that I want to see. She catches me looking and scowls. “My clothes smelled like smoke from the bonfire, and the only other outfit I have with me is my work uniform for tomorrow.” “I wasn’t complaining.” “I know.” She frowns. “You’re weird tonight.” “Nah, I’m weird every night. You’ve just forgotten because you barely ever see me anymore.” “True.” She motions me to follow her, and when I freeze, she says, “I’m not going to jump you if you come into my room, weirdo.” Damn shame. I swallow hard and step inside “her” bedroom. This isn’t the Jacksons’ full-time home, but their vacation place. They rent out this cabin to tourists—a ten-year plan to get it paid off sooner, Carter told me—so it’s definitely not as personal as her room at home, but it is hers. As the only girl, she’s the one Jackson sibling to get a room of her own, and there are little decorative touches in here that show this room is truly Shay’s. The bookshelf overflowing with well-loved paperbacks, the map of Paris that hangs over the queen-sized bed, and the glasses that sit on the bedside table—no doubt for reading after she takes her contacts out. I remember when she got glasses for the first time. She was so excited. But then some jerk at school teased her about them, and she came home with them tucked into her backpack and told her mom she wouldn’t wear them anymore. She lost that fight, of course, and wore glasses until her mom relented and let her get contacts when she started middle school. “I can’t keep much here,” she says as I look around. “We still rent it out sometimes. Less now, though.” “Carter used to be jealous that you got your own room.” She shrugs. “Well, I used to be jealous that my brothers had each other and I didn’t have a single sister.” “And now?” She sweeps her hair over one shoulder and starts braiding the wet locks. “Now I’m grateful to be the only girl. I get along better with boys than I do with girls anyway.” Her fingers work efficiently, and she ties off the braid at the end. “Maybe that would be different if you had sisters.” “Maybe, but I think my family is perfect just the way it is.” She makes a face and seems to rethink her words. “No, not perfect at all. Just perfect for me, I guess.” A pang slices through my chest. Jealousy. Their family is incredible, and somehow they all know it. I don’t have any siblings—none that I know of, at least, though there’s no telling how many kids my father has brought into this world and walked away from. I don’t even have a dad who gives a shit. Just Mom, and I’m grateful for her every day. Mom and I are partners; the Jacksons are a team. When life feels like a constant blitz from the defense, it’s hard not to be jealous of the people who are making plays with a solid O-line—even when your partner is the best in the game. “What are you thinking about?” Shay asks. I shake my head. “Just how lucky you all are.” I let out a breath. “And how much I hate my father.” Shay’s expression turns sad. “Have you talked to him?” “Oh, yeah. He was watching the draft and called right away.” Anger flashes in her eyes. “Of course he did.” “‘Congratulations, son,’” I say in my mocking impression of my father’s voice. “‘I knew you could do it. Aren’t you glad you got my athleticism and not your mother’s? Now let me talk out my ass about NFL contracts like I know anything at all.’” “Fucker.” Shay’s uncharacteristic curse makes me smile. “Exactly.” “Did he ask for money?” “Not yet. I’m sure he will. But I’ve trained my whole life to tell him no, just like he told Mom no when she asked for help.” Her fingers brush mine, and I look down to see her taking the beer from my hand. She takes a long drink from it, her throat bobbing as she swallows, then hands the bottle to me. “To knowing when to say no.” I take a sip and nod before holding up the bottle. It’s nearly half drained. “We don’t have much to work with here.” She shrugs. “You’d better make good use of your turns, then.” “So we’re playing that we take turns saying something and drink if we’ve done it?” She nods. “Which is why I had to drink so much to start. That beer is pretty much all yours.” “We’ll see about that.” I smile and lift it to my lips. I imagined us sitting on the floor, face to face as we took turns, but this is better. Standing, I can be closer to her. “Never have I ever celebrated Father’s Day with my dad.” She snags the beer from my hand. “That’s cheap.” She takes a sip then studies me for a long beat before saying, “Never have I ever had sex.” Cutting right to the chase. “There’s no rush, Shay. Seriously. Don’t let anyone make you feel like—” She clears her throat and presses the cold bottle into my hand. “Drink.” “Right.” I take a sip, mindful of keeping it small so we can keep this going. “Never have I ever had a crush on a brother’s friend.” “You don’t have any brothers!” I shrug. “I don’t make the rules.” She takes a drink. She has five brothers, four of them older than her. The possibilities are endless, but there’s only one possibility I’m interested in hearing her confess to. “Who?” She laughs. “That is not how this game is played, cheater.” She taps a finger to her lips. “Never have I ever gone skinny-dipping.” “Seriously? Your family owns a house on a lake, and you haven’t even once?” She makes a face. “With my brothers? Hard pass.” She hands the beer back to me. “Fine.” I watch her over the bottle as I tilt it to my lips and swallow. “Never have I ever gotten Shay off with my hand.” She folds her arms, all smugness, until the logic of my statement sinks in and red blossoms in her cheeks. “Are you seriously asking me if I have masturbated?” My cock has been half hard since she stepped out of the shower, but at that, it goes the rest of the way. “Again with the precise word choice.” I shrug. “And in all fairness, you could turn around and do the same to me.” She rolls her eyes and takes the beer. “I’m not wasting a turn like that.” She drinks. I thought I knew what I was doing when I said it, but the image of her in bed flashes through my mind as clear as a photo—her hand between her legs, pleasure on her face, all that dark hair splayed across the pillow as she arches into her own touch. So fucking hot. My cock strains against the fly of my jeans. I’m playing with fire right now, but I can’t muster any motivation to back down. “Not all girls do, you know,” I say. “Some are afraid to touch themselves.” “Yeah, well, I was raised around five boys who talk about masturbation as if it’s a sport half the time and as if it’s as essential as water the other half. I didn’t exactly have to go up against some massive stigma the first time I tried it.” “And how was it?” I swallow. “When you . . .” She snorts. “You are twenty-one years old, and you can’t say the word masturbated?” “Why would I when it sounds so much hotter when you say it?” I grin at her immediate and vivid blush, then nod to the bottle. “It’s your turn.” She lifts her chin and holds my gaze as she says, “Never have I ever had someone other than myself get me off.” “Why not?” She shoves the bottle into my hand. “Quit cheating with your unsanctioned questions and drink.” Just how innocent is she? I look at the bottle. There’s hardly a full drink left. Mindful of this, I take a sip and then push all my chips in. “Never have I ever kissed anyone.” “You filthy liar.” Grinning, I tilt the beer to my lips, taking the drink I owe for speaking a never that I have done. I arch a brow. Waiting. Because surely this beautiful, smart, funny girl has been kissed before. Surely, some guy saw her for what she was and won her over so he could taste those pink lips. But when I offer her the beer, she shakes her head. “Never,” she whispers. “Pretty lame, huh?” “It’s not lame. Just . . . surprising.” She scoffs. “What’s so surprising about it?” I open my mouth, but before I can find the words, I’m interrupted by the sound of doors closing, footsteps, and laughter booming from downstairs. The party’s moved inside. That means Shay’s five brothers are downstairs while I’m standing here so close to her, thinking about what it would be like to be the first man to kiss those lips. “Do you . . .” I swallow. Her lips part, and I swear there’s some invisible cord between us that goes taut, draws me forward. “Do you want to?” Her brow wrinkles as she cranes her neck to look into my eyes. “Want to what?” I dip my head, lean my forehead against hers. “Be kissed.” She presses her hand to my chest, and my breath catches as I wait for her to close the distance—those final inches between our lips. Instead, she shoves me hard. “Out!” I stumble before catching my balance. “What the hell?” “I don’t want your pity kiss, East.” She’s avoiding my eyes, but I don’t miss the hurt that flashes across her face. “It wouldn’t be—” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Just go.” “Easton? You up here?” Jake’s voice. Fuuuuuck. Not now. Shay steps around me and opens the door. “What’s he doing up there?” Carter calls from the stairs. “Shay? That rich asshole with you?” Jake pokes his head around the doorframe. “You two decent?” Shay rolls her eyes. “Come in, Jake.” Jake’s all smiles with a side of drunken stumble as he comes into the room. “There’s the guest of honor. What are you two doing up here?” “Telling secrets and braiding each other’s hair.” Shay’s smile is tight. “What else?” Jake chuckles. Unlike Carter, he’s completely clueless about my attraction to Shay. He grabs the empty beer from my hand. “You need more!” Carter rushes into the room. “What’s going on in here?” “I found him,” Jake says, slinging his arm around my shoulders and leading me out of the room. I look back at Shay, but she’s busy scanning the books on her bookshelf. Could she truly not feel this thing between us? Pity kiss? The fuck? How could she even think that was what I was offering? “You okay?” Carter asks her. “What were you two doing?” Jake and I are already at the stairs when I hear her say, “We were fucking, Carter. Doing the dirty with the door open and my brothers downstairs. Can’t you tell? I’m going to turn up pregnant with Easton’s love child any day now.” “You’re not funny,” Carter says, but I can hear the tension leave his voice. The typical Shay smartass response was possibly the only one that would put his mind at ease. When I turn back to them, she’s pushed Carter out of her room and is closing the door after him. Never been kissed. I can hardly wrap my brain around it.
Shay I can’t focus on my book, but I can’t sleep either. Who could with the party roaring downstairs? I roll over and bury my face in a pillow, muffling my frustrated scream. I can’t believe I told Easton I’ve never been kissed. I could’ve lied. He never would’ve known. But the worst part is that I also admitted to having a crush on one of my brothers’ friends. I won’t make the same mistake if he asks about that again. Sometimes we have to lie to protect ourselves, and I know better than to leave my heart unguarded against Easton Connor. I clutch a second pillow to my chest, my skin all tingly with memories of him in my room—standing so close and passing the beer to me while we traded secrets. His body so close as he touched his forehead to mine and asked if I wanted him to kiss me. Could it hurt to close my eyes and let myself imagine what it would’ve been like? I’m totally unworthy, and he’s a fucking football star—now a first-round NFL draft pick—but it would hardly be the first time I’ve indulged such a fantasy. In an alternate reality, I could have accepted that kiss. I imagine myself as the tall, thin beauty my mom was at my age, and I imagine him as just Easton—the boy who patched up my knee when I fell off my bike and who told me jokes when I was sad. In that alternate reality, it wouldn’t have been a pity kiss at all but something he wanted as much as I did. He wouldn’t have asked with words. He would’ve asked with the slow descent of his mouth to mine, and I wouldn’t have pulled away. He would’ve tasted like beer and been gentle, and I would’ve been a naturally good kisser. So good, he would’ve groaned into my mouth like the heroes in romance novels do. I flip over in bed again, whimpering in frustration. My bedroom door clicks, and I stare at it in the darkness. Is Carter checking on me? I don’t know why he’s suddenly so worried about me and Easton being alone together. Probably because I got boobs. Finally. “Shay? You awake?” The husky whisper is a tripwire in my stomach, causing all my internal organs to detonate before clumsily righting themselves. I roll to my side, watching the door as I hold the pillow to my chest. “Yeah. Everything okay?” The sliver of hallway light grows as East steps into the room. “Could I sit in here with you?” Oh, shit. I know that tone in his voice—the subtle tremor of anxiety that sometimes hits East so hard he can’t function. I would do anything to make it better, but luckily, it doesn’t take much. I scoot to the opposite side of the mattress and pat the bed beside me. Easton releases a long breath, and the light shrinks again to nothing as he shuts the door behind him. He lies down on his back on top of the covers. “Sorry,” he whispers. I put my hand on his chest, right on top of his racing heart. “I’m here. It’s fine.” He places a hand on top of mine. “Thank you.” Gone are the days of self-deprecation for these spells of anxiety. The first time I witnessed one of his attacks, he was a junior in high school and it was the night before he was supposed to take the SATs. I found him in the corner of our basement, shivering and sweating. It freaked me out to see him so panicked. He couldn’t catch his breath and his skin was so hot that I thought he had a fever. I had no idea what to do, so I just sat down beside him and held his hand. Eventually, he calmed enough to tell me it was an anxiety attack, and not his first. School was always a trigger for him—especially anything that made him feel like he might lose a chance to play football. After that night, it wasn’t uncommon for him to seek me out during the tough moments. For whatever reason, I’ve always been able to calm him. He told me he was comforted to have me beside him whenever he had to suffer through a full-blown attack. “Just breathe.” I scoot closer, keeping my hand on his chest under his. I hear him fighting to control his breathing, and his heartbeat slows incrementally. “Thank you.” “Try to sleep, East. Everything seems worse in the middle of the night.” I stay close, willing my calm to seep into him until the steady, even beat under my hand lulls me to sleep. I fade in and out of consciousness, dreaming of our drinking game, of our conversation from earlier, my brain replaying and rewriting the words as his grip on my hand loosens. And when the words I needed earlier tonight register in my brain, I don’t know if they’re from this Easton or from my dream. “It wouldn’t have been a pity kiss.” ***Easton: Thank you for last night. You are the literal chill to my crazy. I clutch my phone in my hand as I read and reread the text. I fell asleep next to Easton, but when I woke, the morning sun slanting through the curtains, he was gone. I thought I’d find him downstairs with the rest of the hungover crew, but apparently he had to drive back to Jackson Harbor before anyone was up. I didn’t expect to hear anything from him until the next time he came home but . . . he texted. I try not to let it mean more than it does. Me: You’re not crazy. You have a lot on your shoulders. It’s understandable that your anxiety would flare up. Easton: It’s easier to manage it when you’re there. I squeeze my eyes shut. Does he have any idea what words like this do to me? The hope they give? Easton: Do you think your parents would let you finish high school in L.A.? I’d give you room and board in exchange for your chilling effect in my life. Me: Oh, absolutely. Let me just go tell Dad. He’ll be totally cool with his only daughter moving to L.A. to live with and serve a pro football player. Easton: Serve? Please don’t say it that way to your dad. I like my face as it is. Me: Say it like what? Easton: Like I’m buying sexual favors. Me: I think we’ve established I’m not the girl for THAT job. Easton: I’m saying I wouldn’t want to pay you. Me: If you did, you’d demand a refund. Because, if you recall our conversation, I’m CLUELESS. Easton: No. I don’t want to pay for your sexual favors for the same reason you don’t want a pity kiss. My cheeks are on fire. Luckily, I’m alone in my bedroom and no one can see my awkward nerves at having this conversation with Easton. Is this a conversation, or is it . . . flirting? I stare at the screen while trying to decide how to reply. His next text comes through before I can. Easton: Will you come see my new place when I get settled? Yes! Yes! Yes! I don’t trust myself to reply. I’m trying to be cool, but my insides have zero chill when Easton is pouring on the attention like this. Easton: I’m not sure how I’m supposed to start this new life without my rock to ground me when my crazy comes out. Me: Talking to your doctor about a prescription might be a start. And you know I’m not joking. Easton: I know. I just don’t want to need it. Me: There’s no shame in it. Easton: Thank you. For that. For everything. I reread those words over and over, my heart swelling so big there’s no room for me to draw breath into my lungs. Maybe I’ll never have Easton the way I wish I could, but at least I have this. Whatever it is. My brothers are lounging in the family room, barely awake and worshipping their coffee mugs, and the kitchen is clean, the counters sparkling. There’s no sign of the dirty cups and beer bottles I expected to find littering the main floor. Instead, the only evidence of last night’s celebration is the three black trash bags piled by the garage door. “You all got to work early,” I say to the boys. Jake rubs his eyes. “Not us. East felt bad about leaving us with the mess, so he cleaned before he left.” “Nice.” “Is it just me, or has he been acting weird since the draft?” Jake asks. Carter squeezes his eyes shut. “He’s acting like he doesn’t want to go. Which is ridiculous.” “It’s just a lot. I think he’s still processing,” I say. Carter frowns at me. “Since when are you two besties?” “We’re not besties. I’m just a good listener.” Carter grunts and mumbles something about how I’d better be “listening and nothing more,” and my cheeks heat. I don’t want to pay for your sexual favors for the same reason you don’t want a pity kiss. Maybe that just means he doesn’t want to pay for sex. Maybe I’m being a naive girl with a crush to think it means he wants me.
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