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

“Shayleigh.” He says my name so softly. Not like a curse—which I’d deserve after the way I treated him the last time I saw him—but like a song.

I drop to my hands and knees, picking up the cookies to save myself from having to look him in the eye.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just . . . I just . . .”

He sinks down with me. When I plop a pile of pieces onto the plate, he grabs my hand. “Were you bringing those to me?”

“Yeah.” I take a breath. “They were for you and Abi.”

He arches a brow, waiting, and I will myself to say the words. “I’m sorry I treated you like my own personal sex toy. I’m sorry I pretended there’s never been anything between us but sex. I’m sorry I freaked out when your wife showed up.”

They don’t come. Instead, my gaze is fixed on his bare chest and the sweat rolling between his pecs and over his washboard stomach. Professional sports do amazing things to a man’s body, and as I’m acquainted with every inch of this one, I can attest that the benefits go far beyond the aesthetic.

“Shay, my eyes are up here.” Scowling, I lift my gaze to meet his. He laughs. “Want to see the house?”

“Um, your . . . girlfriend is there.” I doubt she’s a girlfriend per se, but referring to her as his latest screw seems rude.

“My who now?”

God, I’m such an idiot. After the way I treated him, he certainly shouldn’t be waiting around for me, but she doesn’t even look familiar. Is she from around here? Or did he bring her from L.A.? “Blonde, perky boobs.” I hold up a pinkie. “About this big.”

“Are you talking about Tori?”

I return to my cookie retrieval. “Don’t know. Didn’t get her name. She just answered your door.”

“The blonde who answered my door would be Tori, my nanny,” he says with a freight-ton of emphasis on the last word. He’s not just saying she’s his nanny; he’s saying I’m freaking mental for assuming something else. I know it to be true, so I’m not going to argue.

“Oh.” I shrug. “Your nanny, then. My mistake, but I’m sure people make it all the time.”

“Since she’s barely twenty years old. I would hope not.”

My eyes flick up to meet his. “I was twenty when we were in Paris.”

He rocks back on his heels with a deep breath, then pushes himself to standing. Because I’m a bitch. Obviously. Shit.

Guilt washes over me. I abandon the cookies and stand. “I ruin everything. I was coming to apologize.”

He arches a brow. “Really. And what were you going to apologize for?”

He’s going to make me say it. Sonofabitch. “The sex.” I grind out the word.

His lips twitch again, and then he stops fighting it and full-on smiles. “I didn’t need an apology for the sex.” He rakes his gaze over me and back up. “I liked the sex, Shay. You’re right. We are good together. I didn’t take issue with the sex. I took issue with the part where you made assumptions and refused to talk to me.”

I swallow. And here I am, making more assumptions. “Fair enough.”

He nods toward the house. “Want to come inside? I could make you some coffee and . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, and the movement does such good things for his pecs and biceps. Is he intentionally trying to use his body against me? He immediately knocks down that theory. “Abi’s home. You could meet her. If . . . if you wanted.”

There’s something about seeing him like this that gets to me. He’s not exactly insecure but more guarded and hopeful, and I realize I’m nodding.

He beams and takes the tray of broken cookies before striding past me and up the steps to his house. I follow, half convinced I’m making a terrible mistake.

I’m a few steps inside the door when the nanny—I am an idiot—greets me a second time. “Hi again!” She looks from me to Easton and back to me again. “You had the right house after all.”

I hear Easton’s quiet chuckle. “She’s not been here before, Tori.” He takes the tray of broken cookies from me and hands it to Tori. “We had a cookie accident outside, but no one was hurt. Can you take care of that for me? I’m just gonna show Shay around.”

“Okay! Abi’s had breakfast and now she’s upstairs organizing her makeup in her bathroom.”

Easton grins. “Awesome.”

He grabs my hand, and the contact sends such a shock of warmth through me that I simultaneously want to yank my hand away and curl into him. My body hasn’t gotten the memo that last Saturday was a blip and Easton and I aren’t happening again.

It’s so scary to have such a strong reaction to him. If I’d been asked six months ago, I’d have said I was over him, or as over him as I’d ever be. I think you call that “willfully ignorant.” It’s just too hard to get over Easton. Maybe I’m incapable on a cellular level.