If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter Fourteen

Easton

May 16th, ten years ago

The beach is a balm to my lonely soul. Always has been. I grew up on the coast of Lake Michigan and

spent weekends running barefoot in the surf and high school nights kissing girls on blankets in the

sand. Lake Michigan is no Pacific Ocean, but it’s so vast you can’t see anything but water along the

horizon. The waves are nothing compared to the monster currents of the Pacific, but they’re there,

even if they’re only a few feet high.

As hard as it was for me to leave home when I was drafted by the Demons, I’m grateful I landed by the

sea. I walk along the beach every time I need to think. It helps me chill. Helps me organize my

thoughts. And tonight, my thoughts are on my other family, the one I left behind when I left Jackson

Harbor.

It’s been two years since I’ve seen any of them. I thought I’d visit, but then Mom moved out here to be

closer to me, and . . . well, my good intentions weren’t enough to get me back home.

Carter and I haven’t exchanged so much as a text in months. I’ll get a random message from Shay

from time to time, but nothing like those damn “Should I sleep with him?” texts she sent me in the

middle of the night two years ago. She’s still with Steve, so I guess she’s probably answered that

question by now.

If I’m honest with myself, that’s a big part of what keeps me from flying back to Michigan. Every time I

think about booking a ticket, I imagine seeing her with him. I know how unfair and unreasonable my

jealousy is. She isn’t mine. Never has been. I tell myself it’s easier to stay away, but I think staying

away from Shayleigh might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

And this month she’s in Paris for the first time. With her boyfriend, through some program with their

college.

I glance at the time on my phone.

She’s nine hours ahead of me, so it’s dinnertime there. Is her boyfriend romancing her in front of the

Eiffel Tower? Is he telling her how gorgeous she is as they walk the halls of the Louvre? Does she

believe him, or does she still doubt her beauty?

Fuck it.

I unlock my phone and pull up my text app.

Me: How’s Paris?

Shay: Paris is great. Boys are stupid.

If there was any doubt in my mind that I’m a selfish asshole, the big-ass smile those words bring to my

face would have confirmed it.

Me: All boys, or one in particular?

Shay: Who breaks up with a girl IN PARIS?

My breath rushes out of me. Fucking Steve. I thought he was supposed to be the smart kid. I should’ve

trusted my instincts.

Me: A very, very stupid boy. Are you okay?

Shay: I’m fine. I guess I should’ve seen it coming. We get a free day tomorrow and I had it all worked out. We were going to spend it together, but now he tells me we’re through and he’s going to spend it with Heather. Heather, my roommate. Heather, who was supposedly my FRIEND.

Boys are the worst. And that’s where she went wrong—dating a boy.

Shay: Why couldn’t he have done this before we left? Now I’m on this trip and trying to act like I’m fine.

I’ll never forgive him if he ruins Paris for me.

Me: What did you plan for tomorrow?

Shay: Eiffel Tower, of course. BECAUSE ROMANTIC.

Me: Do it anyway.

Shay: I know. I know.

Shay: It’s dumb, but I’ve imagined my first top-of-the-Eiffel-Tower kiss since I was ten.

I grin, and I can’t help but be glad he’s an idiot. This Steve guy has gotten so many of her firsts. He

doesn’t deserve that one too.

Apparently I don’t reply fast enough, because her next text comes through before I can.

Shay: Okay. It IS dumb, but I can’t help it.

Me: He’s doesn’t deserve you or that kiss.

Shay: Or maybe I’m a bore who “studies too much and isn’t fun anymore.”

I sincerely hope Heather has crabs and shares them with Steve. It’s the least he deserves.

Me: Nah. I’m right on this one.

Shay: It’s time for our nighttime bus tour, so I have to put my phone away. Please don’t tell my family

what happened. I don’t want them to worry about me.

Me: You can always trust me with your secrets.

Shay

I scowl at my phone. Did I think Easton was going to text me all weekend just because I’m heartsick?

He could’ve at least responded to my last message. I sent it this morning because I needed to

complain to someone that Heather and Steve sucked face the whole bus tour and then she snuck him

into our room after she thought I was asleep. Assholes.

Easton didn’t reply. There’s a time difference to account for, but still. It’s almost six p.m. here, so that

means it’s almost nine in the morning in LA.

Easton is right about one thing, though. I should spend my evening doing everything I planned, and

while our whole group will go to the Eiffel Tower together next week, I really wanted to go alone first,

when I wouldn’t have professors droning on about the architectural wonder of it. I want to enjoy it on a

visceral level the first time I go, and I shouldn’t miss out just because Steve decided he’d rather be with

Heather.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to feel sorry for myself, so I put on a pair of fitted black jeans, heeled sandals

I hope I won’t regret later, and a flowy pink tank top. I do my hair and my makeup, and by the time I’m

ready to leave, I feel . . . good. I’ll never have a Playboy Bunny body—and the thirty pounds I’ve gained

since starting college aren’t getting me any closer—but when I make an effort instead of throwing my

hair in a sloppy bun and pulling on the nearest T-shirt, I don’t think I look half bad.

On my way out of the dorms, I pass Steve and Heather. Steve’s eyes go wide when he spots me. I

didn’t do this to make him regret breaking up with me, but seeing him look at me like that isn’t a bad

feeling.

I’m nervous to take the Metro alone, but we’ve done this as a group a few times now and I researched

it online. It’s just one line I have to take to get from our host-college dorm to the Eiffel Tower exit.

Once I’m on the train, I actually smile.

I’m in Paris. I’ve wanted to come here since I watched Forget Paris with my mom when I was ten years

old. Maybe it’s better that I can wander the city without Steve. I don’t want to be worried about pleasing

him or giving him the constant reassurance he requires.

When I exit the train and climb the stairs at the Champ de Mars station, the crowds are intense. I clutch

my cross-body purse out of habit. I’ve heard too many stories about women having their purses sliced

right off them.

But there’s the Eiffel Tower. Right in front of me, and it’s bigger than I could imagine. It’s massive.

“A flower, pretty lady?” a man asks, pressing a rose at me like a gift.

I shake my head and keep walking, making my way to the long line of people waiting to take the

elevator up.

***

Easton: Where are you?

Me: Oh, so now you’re going to respond to my texts?

Not even his delayed response can sour my mood. I’m on my own personal cloud nine.

Easton: I was away from my phone. Where are you?

Shay: At the Eiffel Tower, bawling my eyes out because it’s so damn beautiful.

Easton: Be more specific.

Shay: More specific than the Eiffel Tower?

Easton: Which level? Give me details with those words you use so well, Shayleigh.

Shay: The middle one. I haven’t taken the final elevator to the top yet, but right now I’m looking out over

Paris. The sky is so clear I can see Sacré-Coeur in the distance.

I bite my lip, hesitating. Is it dumb to take a selfie? Screw it.

I lift my phone and snap a picture of myself, my hair blowing in the breeze and the city behind me. I

send it off before I can overthink it.

Me: There. Happy?

And because he wouldn’t be Easton if he didn’t make me completely question my actions, he doesn’t

reply. I shake my head and tuck my phone back in my purse.

Focus on the moment, Shay. You can text Easton later.

I take one deep breath after another as I look out over this city I’ve dreamed about visiting for so long,

trying to breathe it in. I want to remember everything, and not just the view but the feeling. My love for

Paris isn’t all that different than the feelings I once had for Easton—an acute longing I could never quite

explain, years of expecting it to change, and then this feeling of rightness while I’m here.

I wipe tears from my cheeks and sigh. I’m an emotional mess right now, but I love it. I might not be able

to have Easton, but I’m claiming this city. She’s mine, and I’m coming back someday—without Steve

and without the college group.

“I’ll come back when I can see all of you,” I whisper. “And we’ll really get to know each other.”

“Are you talking to the tower or the city?”

My heart stops before slowly thudding back to life. Easton? I spin around at the sound of that deep

voice I haven’t heard in so long.

Easton gives a wide, goofy smile and steps closer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your private

conversation.” Owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

I shake my head, try to rehinge my jaw. There’s no way this is real. Just no way.

He takes another step closer. He rakes his gaze over me, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to make sure I’m

okay—as if the breakup could have left a physical mark on me—or if he’s looking at me. God, I want it

to be both, but the nagging, insecure part of me reminds me of the weight I’ve gained and of the

flawlessly beautiful pop star he’s been seeing.

“Paris suits you.”

“What are you doing here?”

He cups my face in his big hands and wipes away my tears with his thumbs. “You’ve waited your whole

life for this trip, and that ass ruined it. I couldn’t have that.”

I must be dreaming.

But he pulls away, and no matter how many times I blink at him, he’s still there. Easton Connor just

kissed me on the Eiffel Tower, and I can’t even process it.

His eyes roam over my face a thousand times. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

He nods. “I was afraid you’d accuse me of offering a pity kiss and refuse me.” His lips quirk into that

bad-boy smile I love so much. “So I didn’t want to ask.”

I touch my fingers to my lips. That happened. “Was it a pity kiss?” Reаd at Dramanovеls.com

“Hell no.”

I’m pretty sure that’s not true, but I smile anyway. “You’re really here.”

He laughs. “Do I need to kiss you again to convince you?”

I open my mouth and then close it again. It’s too much and not enough, and I’m happy and baffled all at

once. I want to ask a thousand questions, but there’s something so magical about this moment that I’m

afraid it might fall apart under the weight of my disbelief.

“Shay? Are you going to say anything?”

“No. I’m not.”

His smile falls away. “Is that bad? Shit, I was trying to do a good thing, and—”

I put a finger to his lips and shake my head. “Shh.” I reach for his hand and lace my fingers through his,

turning to face the view.

He stands beside me, studying our hands, our intertwined fingers. “You’re not mad that I came?”

“I’m not mad.” I smile. I might smile forever. “I can’t believe you came to Paris for no reason other than

my broken heart.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I was just in the neighborhood.”

“Right! Of course. You’re a big-shot NFL player. You probably fly to Paris for dinner all the time.”

His lips twitch. “Totally.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Nope. Not at all.”

I swallow hard. “Big deal or not, thank you. It means a lot to me.”