Chapter Thirteen
Shay
Operation Freeze Him Out died before we even started the tour. Easton is connecting me to a top YA
agent. It might not amount to anything—nothing matters if the book isn’t good enough—but just the fact
that he did it makes those old gooey feelingse back. I was doing a hell of a job trying to turn cool
again when, ten minutes into the tour, his daughter called and I watched his face transform as he talked
to her. I’ve never doubted that Easton was a good dad, but seeing the love on his face when he spoke
with Abi made it impossible to stay irritated with him.
The tour was pretty uneventful from there. Easton didn’t make a pass at me, and I didn’t break down
and beg him to stay away so I can ignore the most painful piece of my past. All in all, I’m gonna call it a
win.
We were stopped half a dozen times by students who recognized him and wanted an autograph, and
Easton handled each one with his signature charm and ease, signing ball caps, scraps of paper, even
the shoulder of one girl who confessed before turning away that she was going straight to her tattoo
artist to get it inked on her forever.
When I wrapped up the tour back at the library where we started, I thought he’d ask me out again or
give me more shit about my rtionship with George, but instead, he stared at me for a long time.
“Thank you for today, Shayleigh. I wouldn’t have wanted to see this ce through anyone else’s eyes.”
And I melted all over again. Because this is Easton, and I’ve always been putty in his hands. The years
apart have changed a lot, but apparently not that.
I knock on George’s office door before cracking it enough to stick my head in. “Hey, you.”
George looks up from a stack of papers and grins. “Hello, Shay. Come in. Shut the door behind you.”
I step inside and lean against the door as it clicks closed. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since
dinner Sunday night, and I don’t feel any more prepared for the conversation we need to have now
than I did then.
“What’s that look about?” George asks. Hees out from behind his desk and takes my purse,
tossing it onto a chair before turning back to me.
“What look?” I smile as he slides his hands behind my back, pulling me against him. I blink when I
realize . . . George is hard. It’s nothing I haven’t felt before, but George usually refrains from touching
me at all on campus. Even this morning’s affection in the library was out of character. He isn’t a public-
disys-of-affection kind of guy. He’s certainly not a rub-my-erection-against-you-in-my-office kind of
guy.
He tucks my hair behind my ear and drags his fingertips down my neck. “Like you’re worried about
something. Did your tour with the football yer go okay?”
Swallowing, I nod. “It was fine. I wasn’t thinking about that, actually.”
“Then what?” He lowers his mouth to my neck and ttens me against the door.
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He’s definitely hard. And definitely looking to do something about that now. In here.
Earlier in our rtionship, I would’ve been turned on by the thought of him touching me in his office, but
today, with my mind so tangled up in my future—and, let’s be fair, with Easton—sex in George’s office
is thest thing on my mind.
“Tell me what’s bothering you,” he murmurs against my neck, his hands busily unbuttoning my coat.
I bite my lip. I should ask about the ring. I should tell him that Easton kissed me Sunday night. “Did I
ever tell you that sometimes I write fiction?”
He pulls back and looks down at me with wide eyes. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned it. That’s great.
Have you thought about sending it to literary journals to diversify your CV?”
Of course he’d reduce this confession to its value on my curriculum vitae. It’s the resumé for
academics, which we try to make as long as possible by including every aplishment we’ve ever
“You’re being modest.” His gaze sweeps over my face, lower, settling on the bit of décolletage exposed
by my shirt, and I want to smack him for not focusing on the conversation at hand. Doesn’t he
understand this is important? “You’re more talented than you think.”
“I’m not being modest. I’m saying it’s not right for a literary journal because it’s not literary. It’s genre
fiction. I’ve been writing for years and have a few novelspleted.”
“There’s nothing wrong with writing stuff like that for fun.” He lowers his face, kissing the swell of
cleavage as he tugs ineffectually at the hem of my pencil skirt.
I brace my palms on his shoulders and gently push him away. “George, I’m trying to have a serious
conversation.”
His eyes are hazy with lust, but he takes a deep breath and backs up to his desk, leaning against it and
folding his arms. “Sorry.” His lips twitch. “Tell me about your genre fiction.”
But I don’t want to. Not when he has that smug look on his face. Not when I know the only words he’ll
speak with more derision than “genre fiction” are “romance novels.” I’m not sure if categorizing my
books as young adult romance would make them better or worse in his mind. “Never mind.” I grab my
purse and slide it onto my shoulder. “I need to get going so I’m notte for Lilly’s practice.”
George’s expression shifts—the smugness gone and reced by . . . panic? “Shay, I’m sorry. I want to
know about your writing.”
I nod. Maybe he does. Maybe he’ll respect what I’ve done since he knows me and my other work. Or
maybe he’ll think I’m wasting my time. Either way, I don’t want to be around him right now. “Another
day,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “It’s not important.”
But it is. More important than I’ve wanted to admit to myself. So important that I only trusted the secret
with Easton, who’s kept it for me all this time. I cringe. I may not know what to call what I have with
George and I might be too much of a coward to ask about the ring, but I owe him honesty. “I need to tell
you something.”
George tilts his head. “What is it?”
“Sunday night after we had dinner, I went to the bar. Easton was there.”
His face goes ck. Even pales a little. “Okay . . .”
He presses my palm to his chest, then dips his head to kiss me. It’s slow and lingering, and I wait for it
to fill me with warmth. It doesn’t. When he pulls away, his eyes are dark. “Did his kiss feel like that?”
“No,” I whisper. Because it didn’t. Easton’s kiss felt like a promise. Like praise and worship. In the two
seconds his lips touched mine, I was destroyed and rebuilt. No, George’s kiss feels nothing like
Easton’s.
“Good,” he whispers, and I don’t correct him. I can’t bring myself to exin that it’s not good. It’s a
mess. Everything’s a mess. “Can you drive back after Lilly’s ss tonight? I want you in my bed.”
I wait for the tingle that should shoot through me, for the temptation of George’s bed to make me
change my ns. It doesn’te. Fuck you, Easton. “I really need to work on my revisions. I might be
able to get them done early if I put my head down.” Co?tent оf
He blows out a breath and straightens. I can practically see him mentally readjusting his expectations.
“Early would be great. You could take a break.”
I look around, surveying George’s office. I’ve been teaching at Starling in a temporary position for the
grading, faculty meetings, advising undergrads, and so fucking muchmittee work. Of that list, the
only thing I find rewarding is the actual time in the ssroom. I love watching students connect with
literature—sometimes for the very first time in their lives. I love taking them by the hand and showing
them that even though writing terrifies them, they have the tools they need to write apelling paper.
But the rest? Insert cringe. “I think I need the extra time to explore my options for next year. I’ve been
so busy finishing this degree and getting qualified for tenure-track positions that I’m not sure I’ve given
enough thought to whether or not that’s what I really want.”
“I can’t deny that seeing Easton again is messing with my head.” I wave a hand between our bodies.
“Messing with this.”
He nods. “I noticed.”