Something flashes across his face. Pain. Regret. I know he’s thinking of the night of Dad’s funeral. I haven’t stopped thinking about that night since I followed George home. I felt like Easton cracked my entire foundation with what he said that night.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “But it’s not the same. Your situation is different.”

“His wife still deserves to know.”

“Of course,” he says. “You do what you think is best.”

I step away from his touch and pull in a long breath. “I’m sorry I lied to you about George and I seeing other people. I was too much of a coward to admit the truth.”

He flashes me that crooked smile and takes a step closer. “Does that mean you’ll give me a chance?”

If only it were that simple. I bite my bottom lip and study his beautiful face—the blue-green eyes, the hard lines of his jaw, the faint stubble he hasn’t shaved away today. I have no business pursuing a relationship with anyone until I figure out what’s next for me, whether that’s in Jackson Harbor or somewhere else entirely. “I think we should only be allowed to touch when we’re in Paris. I tend to lose my mind when we do it stateside.”

Hurt flashes in his eyes. “Shayleigh, what happened in Chicago—”

I put my fingers to his mouth before he can say more. “Don’t say it was a mistake.”

Gently, he takes my hand from his mouth and squeezes my fingers in his. “The only mistake I’ve ever made with you was not trying harder to choose you and my daughter both.”

I melt. “You’re not making this no-touching thing easy, East.”

“I have no intentions of making it easy for you.”

“I just broke up with a married man, I’m about to defend my dissertation, and I have to decide where I want to live next year—assuming I even get a job. You and me? We can’t happen right now. I’ll be your friend, though.”

He searches my face, and the tenderness in his eyes makes me want to yank him to my side of the line I just drew in the sand. “I’ll take it.”

Part IX.

Shay

September 22nd, seven years ago

“How’s Dad today?” I ask in a whisper, quietly shutting the door behind me.

Mom bows her head. It’s brief, but the quick movement speaks volumes. She’s steeling herself to share bad news. “He wants to talk to you.”

I put my purse on the foyer table. “He’s awake?”

“Yes. Go on in.”

But I don’t want to. I already know. I can hear it in her voice.