He looks me up and down. “Good. Because you’re a pretty big dude, and I don’t know if I’d survive if I tried to kick your ass, but I’d have to try if you were using my baby sister for sex.”

Me using her for sex? I think you might have that backward, Jake. “I want something real with her. A relationship. I’ve wanted that for years, and now the time is finally right, but it might be too late. I’m doing everything I can to convince her to give me a chance.”

Jake nods. “Okay. But from here on out, please exclude fucking in my office from your list of everything you can.” He shudders. “I can’t unhear that.”

“Got it.”

“I trust you not to hurt her,” he says, which is a bigger kick in the nuts than he realizes. “Now, excuse me. I need to find a neurologist to cut the memories of tonight from my brain.”

Shay

I baked. I don’t remember the last time I let myself make anything with sugar and flour—high school? Maybe middle school?

I used to bake with Mom all the time. I loved it, loved the feel of sweet, buttery treats melting on my tongue, fresh out of the oven. And my love for it showed around my stomach and hips.

But last night when I couldn’t sleep, I got out of bed and made chocolate chip cookies for Easton and his daughter. Because nothing says “sorry about the hate-fuck” like a plate of baked goods.

The trip to Oklahoma was a bust. I knew from the moment they picked me up from the airport that the job wasn’t a good fit for me. I don’t have a good explanation—just that it didn’t feel right. They said they’d contact me with their decision in May, but I already know I won’t leave my family for that position. If George wants to judge me for that, so be it.

I park my car by Easton’s Lakeview Drive home and grab the tray of cookies from the passenger seat with shaking hands. I feel a little bit like some sweet suburban housewife welcoming the new family to the neighborhood. I’ve rehearsed my speech in my head a dozen times. “I know I wasn’t very welcoming when you were in town, and I’m sorry. If you’re living in Jackson Harbor, you’ll be part of my life, and I want us to be friends.”

“Friends” might be a stretch. I don’t think I can be friends with Easton Connor. It might physically hurt too much. But my behavior during his last visit left a bad feeling in my stomach. I’m not proud of myself.

Taking a deep breath, I walk up his front steps and knock on the door.