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

“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.