As soon as I send it, I wish I worded it differently—or that I hadn’t shared it at all. Easton knows I’ve been planning to stay close to home for college. University of Chicago has been my top choice for years, and I just admitted I might apply to a college across the country to be closer to him.

Two minutes later, he still hasn’t replied, and that does nothing to ease my anxiety.

I look at my phone every thirty seconds while I get dressed. Why did I say anything? By the time I head downstairs to join the hungover masses and clean up, I’m ready to invent the technology to delete texts after sending them.

It’s not until we’re all piled into Jake’s car and on the interstate headed back to Jackson Harbor that Easton replies. The text is so far from what I was hoping that tears sting my eyes.

Easton: Don’t change your plans, Shay. University of Chicago is your dream. I’m just joking around.

Part II.

Shay

Twelve-and-a-half years later

Jackson family brunch has never been a relaxing affair. Every single one of my five brothers has managed to fall into a committed relationship in the last three years. Add in my two nieces and soon-to-be nephew, and our numbers have more than doubled. There are too many of us for even the simplest meal to be anything short of chaotic. And I love it.

But today, I’m grasping for my typical contented family-time happiness and coming up short.

Easton Connor is back in town and going to be in my personal space any second now. Well, not my personal space personal space—not like touching me. But in this kitchen. Sharing a meal with me—with us—for the first time since my father’s funeral. Not only will I have to face him, I’ll have to talk to him. I’ll have to play nice, because no one knows what happened between us.

If I have my way, they never will. I won’t let Easton ruin my day.

When the doorbell rings, my body locks up and the crowd clears out of the kitchen, leaving me blessedly alone for a moment before what feels like an impending apocalypse.

“About time you made it home for a family brunch,” Carter says at the front door.

Easton’s deep chuckle is warm and familiar, like fingertips running up my spine, like hot breath in my ear . . . like stolen kisses and my first shot of tequila.

I reach for the coffee carafe, only to find it empty. Everyone assumes that the Jacksons—craft beer connoisseurs that we are—love nothing more than we love beer. They assume wrong. In my family, coffee ranks high above even our favorite brews.