If It's Only Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 6)

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 relationship 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 place 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. He comes 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-displays-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 player 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 flattens me against the door.

He’s definitely hard. And definitely looking to do something about that now. In here.

Earlier in our relationship, 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 the last 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 accomplishment we’ve ever come by just to prove our worth. “It’s not the kind of thing literary journals would publish.”

“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 novels completed.”

“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 not late for Lilly’s practice.”