But I don’t want to. Not when he has that smug look on his face. Not when I know the only words he’ll speak with more derision than “genre fiction” are “romance novels.” I’m not sure if categorizing my books as young adult romance would make them better or worse in his mind. “Never mind.” I grab my purse and slide it onto my shoulder. “I need to get going so I’m not late for Lilly’s practice.”

George’s expression shifts—the smugness gone and replaced by . . . panic? “Shay, I’m sorry. I want to know about your writing.”

I nod. Maybe he does. Maybe he’ll respect what I’ve done since he knows me and my other work. Or maybe he’ll think I’m wasting my time. Either way, I don’t want to be around him right now. “Another day,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “It’s not important.”

But it is. More important than I’ve wanted to admit to myself. So important that I only trusted the secret with Easton, who’s kept it for me all this time. I cringe. I may not know what to call what I have with George and I might be too much of a coward to ask about the ring, but I owe him honesty. “I need to tell you something.”

George tilts his head. “What is it?”

“Sunday night after we had dinner, I went to the bar. Easton was there.”

His face goes slack. Even pales a little. “Okay . . .”

“He kissed me.” I told myself it wasn’t a big deal, but seeing George’s face as I say the words makes me feel like shit. “I didn’t kiss him back. I pushed him away and told him I was seeing someone.” I swallow hard and step toward him, touch his chest. “It won’t happen again, but I wanted to tell you.”

He presses my palm to his chest, then dips his head to kiss me. It’s slow and lingering, and I wait for it to fill me with warmth. It doesn’t. When he pulls away, his eyes are dark. “Did his kiss feel like that?”

“No,” I whisper. Because it didn’t. Easton’s kiss felt like a promise. Like praise and worship. In the two seconds his lips touched mine, I was destroyed and rebuilt. No, George’s kiss feels nothing like Easton’s.

“Good,” he whispers, and I don’t correct him. I can’t bring myself to explain that it’s not good. It’s a mess. Everything’s a mess. “Can you drive back after Lilly’s class tonight? I want you in my bed.”