If It's Only Love novel Chapter 2

Easton

“You have to fucking stop.” Carter stomps away from the house and toward the bonfire blazing on the beach.

“Stop what?”

“I already told you she’s off-limits.”

The Jackson brothers have been telling me for years that their sister is off-limits. It just didn’t matter until last summer. I’d been busy with school and hadn’t seen Shayleigh in months when I came out to the Jackson family cabin with Carter. Shay was here and suddenly she was . . . more. It’s not like I didn’t know she was pretty before. She’s always been pretty. She’s also always been really fucking special to me. Something about Shay brings me peace when I need it the most. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who can chill my anxiety just by sitting next to me.

But sometime between when I’d seen her at Christmas and when I came out here last summer, she went from the pretty-but-quiet little sister of my best friend to the kind of beautiful it’s hard to look away from. Or maybe it happened long before last summer, and the swimsuit brought it to my attention. Because Shayleigh Jackson in a swimsuit, with her long legs, soft thighs, and full breasts—no idea when that happened. She wasn’t simply the Jackson sister anymore. She was a fucking siren, and I was going to drown trying to resist her. With her dark hair falling around her shoulders and that wide smile and easy laugh, how could I not notice?

And I noticed a few too many times, because Carter caught me staring and tore into me.

Carter looks to the house then to me, and I can practically see him calculating the pros and cons of locking his sister away to protect her virtue.

“I told you I wouldn’t hurt her,” I say.

Carter grunts. “Somehow, that’s not comforting.” He sighs. “She’s seventeen.”

“I know.”

“And you’re moving to California next month.”

“I know.”

“She’s so smart, East. She’s only a junior, and she’s already got colleges chasing her. Did you know she’s fluent in French?”

Did you know she’s incredibly fucking insecure and has no idea what her value is? I don’t ask.

I know I shouldn’t be the man to show her just how beautiful she is, but I want to be anyway. “Does she . . . does she have a boyfriend?” I ask. Carter’s glare would melt a lesser man, but I turn up my palms. “I’m not asking your permission to take her virginity. I’m asking if she has a boyfriend. This is normal conversation.”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” he growls.

“What?”

“I don’t even want you thinking about my sister’s virginity.”

“Again, I’m asking about a boyfriend.”

“No. She doesn’t. She’s too focused on school to date, I think.”

Or she’s too convinced that she’s . . . What did Hilary call her? A fat tagalong? Jesus. If I’d known, I never would have let that fly.

Carter studies me. “Why?” One word, hundreds of warnings.

I shrug. “Just curious how much she tells you.”

Carter frowns. “Wait. What’s that supposed to mean? Do you know something? Does she have a boyfriend?”

“You really are the protective big brother cliché.” I press my palm between his shoulder blades and give him a good shove toward the beach. “The party is waiting.”

As I suspected, it’s less than fifteen minutes until Carter is completely distracted and I can head back to the house without him noticing. I used the time to circulate and listen to everyone’s congrats. Carter’s right. I should be out there. This is my celebration. Lifelong dream accomplished. But there’s only one person I want to celebrate with. One person with killer soft curves and a beautiful smile who owes me a secret.

Shay’s not in the kitchen where we left her. Did she go down to the bonfire and I missed her? I check the basement. Nothing. I head back to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge, ready to give up. Then I hear the screech of old pipes and realize a shower is shutting off.

Grinning, I stride toward the stairs and climb to the second floor. By the time Shay pushes out of the bathroom in a puff of steam, I’m leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded.

She jumps. “Jesus, Easton. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

I don’t answer. My own heart is having some issues. Mainly, it’s racing like it’s trying to force me forward with its momentum—toward her.

I did not think this through.

She’s in a fluffy light blue robe. It’s tied at the waist but gapes open at her chest, giving me a view of the swell of her cleavage. Her wet hair is combed out of her face and falls in light waves down her back.

It would be so easy to tug on the waistband of her robe, to pull her to me and slide my hands inside, to cup her breasts and lower my mouth to hers. Easy, but a fucking death sentence.

“Easton!” She tugs the top of her robe tighter. “Ohmygod. Were you just looking at my breasts?”

I take a deep breath and drag my gaze back up to meet hers. “I love that you call them breasts.”

“What else am I supposed to call them?”

I shrug. “Most girls your age would dodge calling them anything at all. Or maybe vaguely refer to their chest.”

“I think you’re wrong. I’m not twelve anymore.”

I hope my arched brow conveys the obviously I’m not allowed to say.

She swallows. “And, well . . . I guess I’m not afraid of words.”

What are you afraid of?

It’s a question I won’t ask. Not when it would invite her to turn it back on me. I don’t want to talk about my fears any further than I did in the kitchen. Not tonight. Not when she’s so close and soon she’ll be so damn far away. I didn’t anticipate it would bother me so much, but the realization eats away at my gut. “That’s good,” I say. “Because you owe me a few.”

She blinks. “What do I owe you?”

“Words.”

“Must you speak in riddles?”

“Your secret. I told you mine, so now it’s your turn.”

Her face pales, and I wonder just how innocent she is that she doesn’t want to talk about it. “You already guessed it. I’m gonna go get dressed.”

She turns toward her room, and I grab her wrist to stop her. “We can do this one of two ways,” I say, and she slowly turns back to face me. “You can just tell me, which would be fair, since that was our deal. Or”—I lift the beer I grabbed from the fridge—“we can play a game.”

She studies the bottle. “What kind of game?”

“Never Have I Ever.”

She snorts and folds her arms. “Seriously? As I mentioned a minute ago, I’m not twelve anymore.”

I turn up the palm of my free hand, moving it up and down opposite the beer in the other hand, as if I’m weighing them against each other. “Your choice.”

“Fine, the game, but I’m getting dressed first.”

“If you must,” I say. I can’t stop grinning. Damn it. She does that to me.

I wait in the hall while she disappears into her bedroom, my eyes fixed on the door the whole time. Carter would definitely kick my ass if he knew I was about to play a drinking game with his little sister. But it’s not like we’re playing with tequila. One beer split between the two of us can’t get me in too much trouble. That said, if she’s as innocent as she claims, I’ll be the one doing most of the drinking.

A minute later, and the door swings open. Shay’s gotten dressed, but she’s not in her normal clothes. She’s wearing pajamas. These aren’t the kind of pajamas that are meant to seduce—they’re gray cotton. A long-sleeved T-shirt with a lace cutout down each arm, and matching shorts that show just enough leg to remind me there’s more that I want to see.

She catches me looking and scowls. “My clothes smelled like smoke from the bonfire, and the only other outfit I have with me is my work uniform for tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“I know.” She frowns. “You’re weird tonight.”

“Nah, I’m weird every night. You’ve just forgotten because you barely ever see me anymore.”

“True.” She motions me to follow her, and when I freeze, she says, “I’m not going to jump you if you come into my room, weirdo.”

Damn shame.

I swallow hard and step inside “her” bedroom. This isn’t the Jacksons’ full-time home, but their vacation place. They rent out this cabin to tourists—a ten-year plan to get it paid off sooner, Carter told me—so it’s definitely not as personal as her room at home, but it is hers. As the only girl, she’s the one Jackson sibling to get a room of her own, and there are little decorative touches in here that show this room is truly Shay’s. The bookshelf overflowing with well-loved paperbacks, the map of Paris that hangs over the queen-sized bed, and the glasses that sit on the bedside table—no doubt for reading after she takes her contacts out.

I remember when she got glasses for the first time. She was so excited. But then some jerk at school teased her about them, and she came home with them tucked into her backpack and told her mom she wouldn’t wear them anymore. She lost that fight, of course, and wore glasses until her mom relented and let her get contacts when she started middle school.

“I can’t keep much here,” she says as I look around. “We still rent it out sometimes. Less now, though.”

“Carter used to be jealous that you got your own room.”

She shrugs. “Well, I used to be jealous that my brothers had each other and I didn’t have a single sister.”

“And now?”

She sweeps her hair over one shoulder and starts braiding the wet locks. “Now I’m grateful to be the only girl. I get along better with boys than I do with girls anyway.” Her fingers work efficiently, and she ties off the braid at the end.

“Maybe that would be different if you had sisters.”

“Maybe, but I think my family is perfect just the way it is.” She makes a face and seems to rethink her words. “No, not perfect at all. Just perfect for me, I guess.”

A pang slices through my chest. Jealousy. Their family is incredible, and somehow they all know it. I don’t have any siblings—none that I know of, at least, though there’s no telling how many kids my father has brought into this world and walked away from. I don’t even have a dad who gives a shit. Just Mom, and I’m grateful for her every day. Mom and I are partners; the Jacksons are a team. When life feels like a constant blitz from the defense, it’s hard not to be jealous of the people who are making plays with a solid O-line—even when your partner is the best in the game.

Cutting right to the chase. “There’s no rush, Shay. Seriously. Don’t let anyone make you feel like—”

“Seriously? Your family owns a house on a lake, and you haven’t even once?”

She makes a face. “With my brothers? Hard pass.” She hands the beer back to me.

So fucking hot.

She snorts. “You are twenty-one years old, and you can’t say the word masturbated?”