If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Easton

“Can’t you call him or something? Tell him who I am and that I want to see him?”

“Ma’am, no one is allowed back to the players’ rooms without prior authorization.”

I thought I recognized that voice when I got off the elevator, but I can hardly believe my eyes when I

see Shayleigh Jackson arguing with security in my hotel.

“Please? We’re friends. He’ll want to see me.”

“If you’re friends, you should call him.”

“She’s with me, Troy.” I rush forward before Shay can do something reckless like try to push by him. I

can’t see her face, but I can hear the desperation in her voice, and I wouldn’t put it past her.

Shay spins around and barrels into me, throwing her arms around my waist. I wrap her up against me

and close my eyes as I memorize the feeling. It’s been so long and . . . God, when did she get so

small? She feels tiny in my arms.

Troy arches a brow in question, and I nod, reassuring him that she’s welcome here.

I smooth back her hair and tilt her face up to meet mine. The tears rolling down her cheeks slice into

me and hurt nearly as much as the news Carter delivered yesterday. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk

in private.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t fall apart on my family. I couldn’t do that to them.”

I kiss the top of her head. “You can fall apart on me. Come on.” I thread my fingers through hers and

lead her to my room.

“You know? About Dad starting hospice?”

The door shuts behind me with an ominous thunk. Shay turns, folding her arms and searching my face Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

as I nod. I haven’t been home in years, but tomorrow, when the Demons head back to L.A. on the team

plane, I’m going to rent a car and drive up to Jackson Harbor. I have to see Frank one last time. “Carter

called. He’s pretty torn up.”

“Me too.”

“Come here.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t drop her arms or rush toward me and bury her face in my

chest like she did in the hall.

It’s as if now that we’re here, now that we’re alone, she’s second-guessing her choice to come to me,

and I can’t have that. I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms. Her arms are still

folded against her chest, but I stroke her hair, her back. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “It’s not fair.”

And I am. So sorry. Frank Jackson’s the closest thing I ever had to a father—which is a sad state of

affairs, considering the man who provided half my DNA is still alive.

I feel the moment Shay surrenders to the need to be close to me. She drops her arms and wraps them

around me. She stops reinforcing that dam inside her and lets it break. Her tears rack her small frame

and she trembles in my arms, shakes and clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping this grief from

pulling her under.

I don’t know how long we stand there—just inside my hotel room, my arms wrapped around her, her

tears soaking my shirt—but when she pulls away, it’s with a deep breath and a lift of her chin that tells

me she’s determined to be strong.

I search her face—those deep chocolate eyes I’ve dreamed of so many nights and the sweet pink lips

that are pouty without trying. She searches mine in return, and I wonder if she’s missed me as much as

I’ve missed her.

“I should probably go. Your wife . . .”

I cock my head to the side, waiting for her to finish that sentence. When she doesn’t, I say, “Scarlett

might not like you being here, but since she’s currently living with Grant Holland, she doesn’t have

much room to talk.”

Shay grimaces and looks away.

“You already knew.”

She shrugs. “I try not to pay attention to celebrity gossip. I don’t believe most of what they say.”

And rightly so. I’ve had some un-fucking-believable shit written about me since entering the league. But

the recent round of media attention regarding Scarlett is at least partially true. Partially because there’s

all sorts of speculation about our recent separation, and most of it involves me being cold, unfaithful, an

ass, or all of the above. Nobody’s come close to the truth—that I married her because she was

pregnant with my daughter and we were never really in love. Or that it gets lonely being married to

someone who doesn’t love you—a feeling I’m as familiar with as Scarlett is.

“We’re separated.” I shrug as if it’s nothing. As if I didn’t spend years sacrificing everything to try to give

my daughter the family I wanted for her, only to see it fall apart anyway.

“I’m sorry, Easton.” She swallows. “How’s your daughter? Abigail, right?”

I nod. “She’s amazing. Talks up a storm, sings all the time. But she’s going through this fussy phase

where she never wants to eat, and I think she’s losing weight.” I shake my head. Abi has a doctor’s

appointment on Tuesday. “I’m sure everything’s okay. She’s stubborn, and when she doesn’t want to

eat, she doesn’t want to eat, but the protective father in me needs a doctor to tell me that.”

“That makes sense.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “I bet you’re an amazing dad.”

“I try. Most of it I’ve just had to figure out as I go.”

“As a girl who was raised by an amazing dad, I have to say it’s everything.” More tears spill down her

cheeks, and I’m being torn apart.

I don’t know when I cupped her face in my hand, but I watch my thumb clear away a streak of tears.

She came to me. “I’m glad you’re here.” My chest feels too tight. Fuck, I’ve missed her so much. “I’m so

sorry about how I handled the pregnancy. I was trying to help Scarlett stay sober and generally freaking

out about becoming a father. And—”

She presses a thumb to my lips. “Not tonight, okay? I don’t want to talk about that tonight.”

Right. She has enough to process.

I nod, but she doesn’t move her thumb. Instead, she presses down until the tip is in my mouth, almost

between my teeth. I touch it with my tongue, and her eyes darken. I want more than this tiny taste,

more than I can have. I don’t know how long we stand like that—her thumb between my teeth, her face

in my hands, our bodies so close that I can smell her lemon-and-lavender soap.

I’m not sure I take a single breath until she steps back and my hands drop helplessly to my sides. She

drags her bottom lip between her teeth and holds my gaze as she unbuttons her shirt and lets it drop

from her shoulders, and my situation with the oxygen shortage doesn’t improve a bit.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of her smooth ivory skin, her breasts cupped in the simple white cotton

of her bra. I follow her hands, watching as they unbutton her jeans and push them down her hips.

I’ve fucked up so many times where Shay is concerned, and tonight she came to me upset, grieving.

Maybe the right thing to do is to tell her to keep her clothes on. Maybe letting her strip makes my sins

cross over into unforgiveable. But I’m willing to accept every label, every hit to my character and blow

to my ego if it means I get to touch her.

She steps out of her jeans, and I can’t take my eyes off her. I love that her bra is simple, nearly virginal,

love that her panties aren’t a match but a bright pink. They’re cut to sit high on her hips and barely

cover her ass. I love how easy it is—how uncalculated. She didn’t put on her sexiest panty set and

come here to seduce me. She’s just wearing whatever she’s wearing. But who am I kidding? She could

be wearing fucking pantaloons and a chastity belt under her clothes, and I’m sure I’d still be hard as a

rock watching her strip for me.

I can’t help but notice the changes, though. I memorized her with eyes, hands, and mouth in Paris, and

I know every inch of her. She’s lost weight. Too much. I want to ask if she’s okay, if she’s been sick—

Carter hasn’t said anything, but damn, she’s so frail—but I don’t. She’s always been so self-conscious

about her appearance, and I don’t want her thinking she’s not beautiful when she takes my breath at

any size.

“Say something,” she whispers, and I realize I’ve just been staring, trying to catalogue every change

while her hands shake at her sides.

“You’re beautiful.” Is there really anything else to say? But the more honest part of my brain whispers

that there’s so much more. I want you. I need you. I’ve fucking missed you.

She looks down and swallows. “Better, huh?”

My stomach knots. I hate that she never saw herself the way I saw her. “You’ve always been beautiful.

I’ve told you that before.”

Her lips part as she blows out a breath. “I’ll never look like your Scarlett Lashenta.”

The words are a kick in the nuts. They’re a reminder that my decisions shackled this girl—this woman

—with insecurities. “I’m glad for that.” My wife’s name floats in the room, a reminder that I’m entangled

in a different world than Shay, a more vicious one, a reminder that we can’t be seen together without

that world taking a swing at her. “Shay . . .”

She gives a small, sad smile and turns her back to me, striding toward the bed.

I close my eyes and count my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. I know why she’s here now—I understand

exactly what she wants from me. And I want it too—holy shit, do I want it. I want to give her what she

came here for tonight, provide the comfort I know she needs. More than that, I want her. But my life is a

fucking mess, and I can’t drag her into that. Scarlett may have moved out, but our lives are still

entwined. I have to work out my shit so I can give Shay more than another night of pleasure.

When I finally lock on to my resolve, I follow her into the room and find her crouched in front of the

minibar, digging through it. The sight of Shay in her underwear, frowning at a bottle of tequila, makes

me grin.

She holds it up. “Not much here, but do you mind?”

“Help yourself.”

She unscrews the lid and takes a sip, grimacing. “Shit.”

When she offers it to me, I shake my head. I don’t drink much during the season, but even if I did, I

don’t trust myself to drink tonight. I already only have a tenuous hold on my self-control, and even a

drop of alcohol might obliterate that.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She takes another sip as she scans the room. “I really expected you to be

in a fancy suite or something. This is . . . almost a normal-person hotel room.”

