Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Shay
Twelve-and-a-half yearster
Jackson family brunch has never been a rxing affair. Every single one of my five brothers has
managed to fall into amitted rtionship in thest three years. Add in my two nieces and soon-to-
be nephew, and our numbers have more than doubled. There are too many of us for even the simplest
meal to be anything short of chaotic. And I love it.
But today, I’m grasping for my typical contented family-time happiness anding up short.
Easton Connor is back in town and going to be in my personal space any second now. Well, not my
personal space personal space—not like touching me. But in this kitchen. Sharing a meal with me—
with us—for the first time since my father’s funeral. Not only will I have to face him, I’ll have to talk to
him. I’ll have to y nice, because no one knows what happened between us.
If I have my way, they never will. I won’t let Easton ruin my day.
When the doorbell rings, my body locks up and the crowd clears out of the kitchen, leaving me
blessedly alone for a moment before what feels like an impending apocalypse.
“About time you made it home for a family brunch,” Carter says at the front door.
Easton’s deep chuckle is warm and familiar, like fingertips running up my spine, like hot breath in my
ear . . . like stolen kisses and my first shot of tequ.
I reach for the coffee carafe, only to find it empty. Everyone assumes that the Jacksons—craft beer
connoisseurs that we are—love nothing more than we love beer. They assume wrong. In my family,
coffee ranks high above even our favorite brews.
I grind some beans and dump them into the coffee filter. It’s a three-cup-minimum day. I’ve been
working nonstop between finishing my dissertation, keeping up with the four sses I teach at Starling
University, and job hunting. The stress is finally catching up to me, and there’s never enough sleep or
enough coffee.
“East!” Brayden calls. I hear him jog down thest few steps and consider that perhaps Easton is the
miracle worker he was deemed his second year in the NFL, because I didn’t think anybody but Molly
and Noah could pull Brayden away from work that quickly. “Congrats on the retirement! How’s it
going?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to my family ooh and aww over him. Easton and Carter may have
been the closest growing up, but Easton was friends with all my brothers, and he’s Jackson Harbor’s
only im to fame. Everyone’s buzzing about him moving back home.
Tuning out the conversationing from the front of the house, I focus on the coffee dripping all too
slowly into the pot when every instinct screams at me to run to the bathroom and check my
appearance. I changed three times this morning before making myself put on my favorite stretchy jeans
and a Jackson Brews T-shirt. Because nothing says “I don’t care that you broke my heart” like wearing
the exact same outfit I do behind the bar at our family’s brewpub.
“Hey, pretty,” Teagan says, wandering in from the living room.
“Morning, beautiful.” I turn away from the coffee pot to smile at my best friend. Teagan looks stunning
today, as usual. Her dark hair is pulled off her face, and she’s rocking a sweater dress that shows off
her curves. I’ll be shocked if Carter is able to keep his hands off her—not that he typically bothers
trying. He’s a fool in love.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod, then cut my eyes toward the front of the house. “They’re acting like a bunch of puppies running
to greet their master.”
Sheughs. “But are you okay?”
My history with Easton is a secret, but when I found out he wasing to town, Teagan saw the panic
in my eyes. I admitted I used to have a thing for Easton. She prodded for more information, but when it
lips in response, it’s not convincing.
She opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of champagne. “Seems like a good day for mimosas. Want
one?”
Carter’sughing at something Easton said. Why didn’t I juste up with an excuse to miss this
morning? I’m staring down the barrel of my dissertation defense and have a pile of revisions I need to
RêAdt??St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only
work through in the next two months, never mind the midterm essays I haven’t graded yet. No one
would’ve held my absence against me.
I wave her off. “I’m good with coffee.”
She hums and grabs some champagne sses from the cab.
I’m urging the coffee to brew faster and doing a pretty decent job ignoring the conversation at the front
of the house when I hear Easton ask, “Is Shay here?”
The words are like a pair of jumper cables to my heart. Does he really care, or is he just being polite?
“She’s in the kitchen making coffee,” Carter says.
“Of course she is.” Easton chuckles. God, thatugh. It transports me to another time. If I close my
eyes, I’m in his bed in Paris, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the dusk beyond the window, his smell all over
me.
I draw in a breath, and when I open my eyes, he’s standing in front of me—the man I once loved so
desperately, the only guy to ever break my heart.
Easton’s eyes go wide, and his jaw ckens as he takes me in. His eyes skim over me, from my dark
ponytail down to my beaten-up ck Chuck Taylors then back up. “Shayleigh Jackson, what a sight for
sore eyes.”
“Hey, East.”
Teagan nudges my arm, then shoves a ss of champagne into my hand. Because, obviously, she’s
the best friend ever and knows me better than I know myself. “We’re out of OJ,” she says brightly.
I take a sip of the champagne and give Easton a small smile.
“You look . . .” he starts.
I arch a brow, waiting for him to finish that sentence. There are many directions he could go with this. A
polite “great” would work. Or maybe the healthy muscle tone I’ve gained since Ist saw him calls for
“incredible.” I really hope he doesn’t say “all grown up” or any shit like that. I can’t be held responsible
for what my fists will do if he treats me like a little girl.
Carter’s found the champagne, and he offers Easton a ss.
East nods his thanks before turning back to me. “You look well,” he says softly. Well. How . . . clinical.
And somewhere in my chest, the remaining kernel of the girl I was winces. That girl wished every day
that she could be thin, that she could walk into a room and drop jaws, that she could be more than “the
smart girl.” The idea that she still wouldn’t be that even if she did lose the weight was a fear she didn’t
even admit to herself.
But that girl didn’t know who she was. And this girl—this woman—does. So I look him over brazenly,
taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the corded muscles of his arms, the way his L.A. Demons shirt
stretches across his chest, and, finally, the subtle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “So do you.” I tap
my ss to his, but I don’t take another drink. Despite Teagan’s good intentions, I need to keep my wits
about me today.
And for thest two months, I’ve anticipated his return with a mix of dread and curiosity. I feel more
than a little guilty about the number of times his impending return has intruded in my thoughts during
my scarce alone time with secret kind-of-boyfriend, George. I wonder if I would’ve even gone home
with George that first time if I hadn’t learned Easton wasing.
And I can’t help but be grateful that I did. It’s better that I’m not single.
I ce my champagne flute on the counter and trade it for a mug full of coffee.
When ites to Easton Connor, I cannot be trusted.