Carter’s laughing at something Easton said. Why didn’t I just come up with an excuse to miss this morning? I’m staring down the barrel of my dissertation defense and have a pile of revisions I need to work through in the next two months, never mind the midterm essays I haven’t graded yet. No one would’ve held my absence against me.

I wave her off. “I’m good with coffee.”

She hums and grabs some champagne glasses from the cabinet.

I’m urging the coffee to brew faster and doing a pretty decent job ignoring the conversation at the front of the house when I hear Easton ask, “Is Shay here?”

The words are like a pair of jumper cables to my heart. Does he really care, or is he just being polite?

“She’s in the kitchen making coffee,” Carter says.

“Of course she is.” Easton chuckles. God, that laugh. It transports me to another time. If I close my eyes, I’m in his bed in Paris, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the dusk beyond the window, his smell all over me.

I draw in a breath, and when I open my eyes, he’s standing in front of me—the man I once loved so desperately, the only guy to ever break my heart.

Easton’s eyes go wide, and his jaw slackens as he takes me in. His eyes skim over me, from my dark ponytail down to my beaten-up black Chuck Taylors then back up. “Shayleigh Jackson, what a sight for sore eyes.”

“Hey, East.”

Teagan nudges my arm, then shoves a glass of champagne into my hand. Because, obviously, she’s the best friend ever and knows me better than I know myself. “We’re out of OJ,” she says brightly.

I take a sip of the champagne and give Easton a small smile.

“You look . . .” he starts.

I arch a brow, waiting for him to finish that sentence. There are many directions he could go with this. A polite “great” would work. Or maybe the healthy muscle tone I’ve gained since I last saw him calls for “incredible.” I really hope he doesn’t say “all grown up” or any shit like that. I can’t be held responsible for what my fists will do if he treats me like a little girl.

Carter’s found the champagne, and he offers Easton a glass.

East nods his thanks before turning back to me. “You look well,” he says softly. Well. How . . . clinical. And somewhere in my chest, the remaining kernel of the girl I was winces. That girl wished every day that she could be thin, that she could walk into a room and drop jaws, that she could be more than “the smart girl.” The idea that she still wouldn’t be that even if she did lose the weight was a fear she didn’t even admit to herself.