“Just what?” he asks, propping his chin on his hands. “Just a lifelong passion?” He smiles, all angelic and shit, but I know better.

“Just a hobby,” I say, even though the words feel like a betrayal to some growing seed buried deep inside me.

He tilts his head to one side, then the other, as if he’s trying to use the light to better see through my bullshit. “For such a confident woman, you sure are scared.”

I shut my laptop. “What do you need, Easton?”

“A tour.”

“What?”

“The Starling football program offered me the position as their quarterback coach. The campus has changed a lot since I went there, so I want to get a feel for it before I make a decision.”

Easton. Living in Jackson Harbor, coming to Jackson family brunch, hanging at Jackson Brews, and working at Starling, where I spend my weekdays. Is he trying to force me into an emotional meltdown? Hell, maybe it’s good that my career trajectory is about to corner me into a move. That might be the only way to avoid him. “I’m sure the football people would be happy to take you on a tour. I don’t know anything about that side of campus.”

“And they don’t know anything about your side of campus, but I want to get a feel for the whole thing.”

I grunt. “You’re telling me the layout of the English department will be integral in your decision to coach a bunch of football players?”

He sips his beer, watching me.

Sighing, I try again. “The people in admissions get paid to give tours. The lovely folks in fundraising and alumni engagement would probably carry you through campus on a golden sedan chair. The administration would probably make the college president himself take you on the damn tour if they thought you’d take the position.”

He nods. “You’re probably right.”

Thank you. I turn my attention back to my laptop, still ignoring the beer he poured me. It doesn’t even appeal to me right now, which is good, since I’m so tired that I’d probably pass out after drinking half of it. I shouldn’t have worked through my spring break. I can’t afford to burn out right before the finish line. “So . . . good luck with that. I’ll see you around.”

I can feel his gaze on me. Hungry and intense. By the way he’s devouring me with his eyes, you’d think I was in a slinky formal gown and not the clothes I wore on my afternoon run. “You’re right,” he says, “but I still want you to do the tour.”

I refuse to look away from my screen and reread an email about a department meeting. “It’s nice to want things.”

“Which is why I mentioned it in my meeting this morning. I said Shayleigh Jackson is an old family friend and I’d love for her to show me around the liberal arts side of campus.” When I finally lift my eyes, he’s grinning like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and not like a grown man cornering me into spending time with him. “I guess you’ll get a call about it soon.”

“I guess I will,” I say tightly.

Easton

Glasses. Sloppy bun. Pencil skirt. Oversized cardigan. No makeup, but a little gloss on her lips.

Shay agreed to meet me at the coffee kiosk in the lobby of the campus library Wednesday morning, and I’m sure she had no idea that her choice in attire would inspire some serious sexy librarian fantasies.

She grabs her coat off the back of a chair and shrugs into it. “Good. You’re on time. Where do you want to start? I want to be back in my office by ten.”

I grin at her. I’m not about to let her abrasive attitude scare me off. I brought a new fledgling NFL team through its growing pains and to three Super Bowl wins. I am persistence. “Coffee?” I ask, ignoring her scowl.

She opens her mouth, and I know she wants to refuse like she refused the beer I brought up last night, but this is Shay and coffee. I know her weaknesses. “I guess we can drink and walk.”

I’m going to win her back one little victory at a time, and we’ll call this victory number one. “Americano, splash of half and half?”

Something in her expression softens, but she lifts her chin, fighting it. “That would be perfect, thanks.”

I head to the counter to grab our drinks, and she stays at her table and pulls out her phone, an action surely meant to put me in my place. Sure, she might have to show me around campus, but she’s not going to pretend to be happy about it.

“What can I get you?” the barista asks me. His tone sounds as disgusted as his facial expression looks.

“Two grande Americanos. One black, one with cream.”

Tags: Lexi Ryan Boys of Jackson Harbor Romance
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