Sweet Cheeks

by K. Bromberg

  “Hardy har har. C’mon, I’m being serious, here.”

  “I am too.” How did he go from listening to me rant to thinking this is a good idea? I sigh. “So, what? You think that by me showing them I’m more confident, they’re going to somehow support the business? It’s not like baking cupcakes is solving the world hunger crisis or anything. That’s a huge stretch.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But if you left the golden boy and are no worse for wear and actually have the guts to show up at the wedding, you sure as hell know they’re all going to wonder what you know that they don’t.”

  “For the record I still think you’re crazy, Ryd, but thank God I’m not looking at the world through their snob-colored glasses, either.”

  He flashes me the same cocky grin he has since childhood. “Just think of it this way: if they see you with this newfound confidence, they’ll think the bakery is rolling in the dough. Pun intended,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows as I roll my eyes. “Being the shallow assholes they are, they’ll sniff the proverbial money in the air and think they need to try out your new shop to see what has changed in you.”

  We stare at each other across the table. His eyes search to see if I agree with what he’s saying. And I do see some merit in it. I remember the many times I sat at lunch with all of my then-friends and listened to them talk about so and so and how they must be doing well. The discussion would turn to maybe we should go see for ourselves.

  I can’t even believe I’m entertaining the thought or that this crazy set of mishaps has led to this discussion in the first place. It’s one thing to envision Mitch panicking. It’s another to find out the RSVP was actually mailed. And now this? Ryder thinking I need to show up to save the bakery?

  I can’t believe I’m finding an ounce of merit in what he’s saying.

  “Possibly,” I finally murmur, breaking his gaze and starting the next identical line of piping. I’m mad at him for making sense and annoyed with myself for even entertaining this conversation. And then it hits me how to stop this conversation, once and for all. “You forgot one more thing though, Ryder. I’d have to have a hot guy who’s madly in love with me. Isn’t that what my friends need to see in order for me to even remotely think I can pull this off? You’ve seen my dating life of late. Netflix and Nutella are about as exciting as I get. And hiring some paid-for escort to take me to a foreign country is not going to happen. So sorry.”

  When I look up, I can’t read the intention in his hint of a smile, but something about it has me straightening up. Our eyes hold, his head nodding ever so subtly as he rubs his hands over his jaw line.

  “I can think of a few options.”

  “Drop it,” I huff. “You’re crazy. Discussion is over.” I bend back over, effectively dismissing the topic at hand.

  But he doesn’t move. Just stands there and watches me. And I hate every second of it. But I don’t look up, don’t say a word.

  Discussion is over.

  “Do you know how much I want you?” My hands are braced on either side of her. Her nipples are hard and pressed to my chest. The cool silk of the sheets slide over my ass as I grind between the heat of her thighs.

  “Show me.” Tessa’s eyes flutter closed as her lips meet mine. My dick hardens. It’s impossible to ignore the memories of last night—her kiss, her moans, her nails—when this was real between us. Skin to skin. Without the merkin or the glycerin spray for sweat. Void of the heat of the set lights or eyes of the crew watching us. Or rather, watching her, because she’s definitely a visual orgasm.

  It’s Saylor. She needs your help.

  My next line falters on my lips. The words I know by heart escaping me as the text I received earlier distracts me once again. Tessa’s body stiffens beneath mine, her face twists in annoyance, and I know there’s no way we can smooth over my missed line.

  “Shit. Sorry.” I sit back on my haunches and go to scrub my hands over my face but stop myself before smearing the makeup artist’s hour-long job creating my two-day-old black eye and stitched-up cut on my cheek. Instead, I scrunch up my nose as I look down at Tessa. Beautiful, sexy Tessa who is sneering at me from behind her dark lashes and thick stage makeup. Pissed because I can’t get my shit straight today, my concentration continually hijacked.

  But it’s not like I don’t know my lines. I’m sure the director thinks I was out late partying and not studying the script for today’s fifteen-plus-hour marathon shoot. Just what I need—him to get pissy and do a million retakes until it’s perfected, which will result in one of Tessa’s well-publicized starlet tantrums.

  The criticism I deserve. The tantrum I don’t.

  The irony is Tessa knows exactly where I was. On top of her. Beneath her. In her. All night long.

  And if she throws a tantrum then what happened between us last night will come out somehow. She runs at the mouth when angry and that won’t bode well since I’m trying to keep a low public profile. Because even though this is a closed set, someone will talk. Talk leads to tabloids. Tabloids lead to snooping. And in my current situation, snooping leads to disaster.

  And as much as I’m taking the fall for all of the other shit going on—the tabloid accusations of cheating—I’d rather keep them to just that: accusations, instead of verified facts.

  Besides I fucked up. The thing with Tessa wasn’t on the agenda. We were running our lines for today. This sex scene . . . and one thing led to another.

  Not that I’m complaining because Tessa Gravestone equals spank-bank material for most men.

  But when I look down at her where she lies on the bed, perfect tits uncovered and on display—because her theory is if she bought them, then people should see them—I just sigh and shake my head. Another apology on my lips.

  And as much as I’d like to convince myself it was the great sex with her last night and wanting to do it again right now that has me forgetting my lines like a first year SAG card holder, it’s not.

  It’s not the stress of keeping what happened with her under wraps or what’s going on in the tabloids with Jenna or anything else.

  It’s fucking Ryder. I don’t talk to the guy for over eight months and then all of a sudden we talk twice in one week. But it wasn’t plans we made to meet up when I finally head home for the first time in forever that have me screwing up my lines. It was his damn text.

  His simple request. The mention of the one person we both had an unspoken agreement never to bring up: Saylor.

  And fuck if I’ll admit that just seeing her name is the reason my concentration has been shot to hell.

  “Hayes?” It’s the director’s voice.

  “Yeah?” I look up, my mind pulled immediately from long, tanned legs dangling from the dock, warm summer nights making out in the tree house we’d long since outgrown, and seeing my name on the back of my letterman jacket as she walked up the sidewalk to her front door.

  Every person on the set is staring at me. Time is money. And I’m sitting here wasting it, thinking about way back when. Another life I escaped from but suddenly feel like I’m being sucked back into.

  All because of a simple damn name.

  “Sorry. I got distracted.”

  Tessa puffs her chest out—pink nipples on display—thinking she’s the cause of my distraction. I fight the roll of my eyes. Bite back telling her she’s not that great if for nothing more than to knock down that ego of hers that grows bigger every day.

  “Are you undistracted now?” the director asks. Chuckles filter through the room as the grips and cameramen assume it’s my dick distracting me. Understandably. I bet a few of theirs are flying half-mast too at the sight of Tessa.

  She smiles smugly as I shift off her and back to my original blocking for the start of the scene. “Yeah. Let’s take it from the last mark. I’ll nail it this time.”

  At least I earn some chuckles with that one.

  The hours roll together. Take after take. Line after line. All on repeat until deemed perfect by the acclaimed
director, Andy Westin. The main reason I begged, borrowed, and stole just to get the role. So I could get the monumental chance to work with him. Learn from him.

  I throw everything into my character. Tell myself to block the noise out. Ignore all thoughts of Saylor. And get through the first part of the day and its expedited filming schedule sped up for my own benefit.

  When we break for lunch at four in the afternoon, I grab a quick bite at craft services and head back to my trailer for some downtime.

  My cell on the dinette greets me as I enter. The text on it still lingering on my mind. The woman it pertains to even more so.

  Wanting to catch a quick snooze during the ninety-minute break till next call, I lie down on the couch, feet on one armrest and my head on the other. I run the next scene through my head. The lines I know like the back of my hand. The ones I definitely can’t fuck up next go-round.

  . . . Saylor . . .

  The emotion and intonation I need to inflect in each word of the script.

  . . . the seventeen-year-old girl I left behind . . .

  The facial expressions I’ll need to emulate to convey my character’s inner turmoil.

  . . . sweet smiles, soft lips, my teenage world . . .

  The physical actions required to show a man in conflict as he makes love to the woman he suspects had a hand in murdering his father and yet he can’t help but love.

  . . . the only regret I’ve ever had . . .

  “Goddammit.” I scrub my hands over my face in frustration. I need to focus. To concentrate. And not on Saylor. The girl I never said goodbye to. The promises left empty. The door I slammed shut so I didn’t feel like the selfish prick I was for chasing my dreams without a single thought to hers.

  Shit. It’s amazing how the bright lights in this big city have pushed all that away. Faded the memories. Reinforced my decision with the success it has brought me.

  And all it takes to bring me right back is one text from my oldest friend who never asks for anything.

  Cashing in that IOU. It’s Saylor. She needs your help. Call when you can.

  Fuck, man. Trying to forget her is like trying to remember someone I’ve never met. It’s impossible. And no matter how hard I try to push Ryder’s text out of my mind, she’s still there.

  Clear as day.

  Because nothing improves the memory like trying to forget.

  “That’s a good color on you.”

  I glance up from the cupcakes before me and glare at DeeDee. “Funny.”

  “Let me guess, it was you versus the frosting and the frosting won?”

  “Is it that bad?” I reach up to pat down my hair but stop the natural reaction since my hands are covered in frosting too.

  DeeDee’s smile widens as she takes in the fallout from trying to do too many things at once. Like use the hand mixer and reach for the phone at the same time so the beaters lift from the bowl and spray blue icing all over the place.

  More specifically, all over me. If my apron is any indication, I can only imagine the million blue flecks in my hair as if someone threw confetti at me.

  “Nah. It’s just you.”

  I laugh and know this is exactly one of the things that irked Mitch so much. My ability to get so lost in my work that I don’t give a second thought to being covered in ingredients. How some days I’d slide into his car and get something—batter, frosting, or God forbid, sprinkles—on the custom leather seats of his precious Mercedes. “Guess that explains why my dating life is so jam-packed these days, huh?”

  “You and me both,” she says as she looks up from the computer with a lift of her eyebrows. “Checking social media for you.”

  “Per Ryder’s request, I’m sure.”

  She laughs for good measure, giving me an answer without saying a word. “Bride’s mom from last weekend tweeted last night saying she loved the cupcakes and wanted to thank you. I private messaged her and asked if she’d be a reference for us. She agreed and asked if it would be okay if she recommended Sweet Cheeks to the catering manager she works with at the convention center.”

  “Really?” The thought of getting on their coveted vendor list has me smiling despite the nine hours I’ve already put in today.

  “Yes. Fingers crossed she follows through. See? The power of social media.” Someone’s been talking to Ryder too much. I shake my head at the thought as she stands and walks toward the table where I’m working.

  “Wow. These look great. Is this the order for the Rosemont family that came in yesterday?” She steps forward to look closer at the ten dozen cupcakes I’m putting the finishing touches on. All of them are decorated like a Marine’s dress blue uniform, complete with accurate bars and accolades.

  I angle my head to the side, scrutinize my own work and nod, pleased with how they turned out. “Yes. They’re for a celebration of life event. He was a retired Marine.”

  “Highly decorated by the looks of it.”

  “Seems so.”

  “Do you want me to deliver them for you?”

  “No need to. They’re getting picked up after five.” I glance at the clock on the wall and cringe. I have forty minutes left to get them finished.

  The bell on the door to the bakery jingles, announcing a customer, and DeeDee smiles.

  “The game must be over. I’ll man the counter,” she says as she heads out front to greet them. And thank God for the game, or rather the series of basketball games in a state cup tournament, being held right down the street at the high school. A lot of new faces have been stopping in this week with the buy three get one free flyer we papered the school with, resulting in some boosted sales.

  I’ll take any little victory I can get right now.

  The intermittent jingle of the door lightens my mood as I finish up the final dozen uniform-themed cupcakes, package them up, and place them in the display case for completed orders behind the counter. I know Ryder will be happy with this week’s receipts and that, more than anything, gives me an ounce of hope I’ll be able to figure something out to keep my dream afloat.

  The colors in the sky begin to fade as I clean up the back room and take a few phone orders. What I really want to do is run upstairs to my apartment atop the bakery and grab a quick shower. But I figure if I wait until we close, then I can reward myself with a glass or two of wine while soaking in a hot bath.

  The bell jingles again and I hear a man say, “Good afternoon.” Something about the sound of his voice gives me pause, and I stop long enough to notice that after a few seconds, DeeDee hasn’t responded.

  “Dee?” I call out as I move through the doorway to the retail front. She comes into view first—eyes wide, mouth agape—staring straight ahead. I immediately open my mouth to apologize to the customer for her rudeness, but the words—just like my heart—stop abruptly when the customer comes into sight.

  I feel like every part of me staggers backward, and yet my feet stay completely still, as a pair of chocolate-brown eyes meet mine. A cocky yet cautious smile slowly curls up the corner of his mouth.

  That mouth. The one that whispered sweet nothings. Lies. Told me he’d stay forever. And left without ever saying a word.

  It’s like the air has been vacuumed from the room. I struggle to draw in a steady breath, and time seems to stand still as we stare at each other.

  Because it’s him.

  Hayes Whitley.

  An older version of the boy who walked away all those years ago. Washed his hands of me and what we had without a word. The one who broke my heart in every way imaginable and stole more than just my innocence when he drove off.

  Seconds pass. They feel like those first weeks after he left—long, confusing, and painful. And the hurt I thought I’d let go of years ago, slams into me like a battering ram.

  But hell if I’m going to let him know it.

  “Ships Ahoy.” His voice . . . silk over gravel. How can it still cause goosebumps to race over my skin despite everything? How can that stupid nickname I haven’t
heard in almost ten years still ruffle my feathers and make me remember things I thought I’d purged from my memory? How can it make me say the one name I swore I’d never say again?

  “Hayes.” My voice is calm. Even. Expertly disguising my racing pulse and the sudden surge of every imaginable emotion overwhelming me.

  “It’s been a long time, Saylor.” No smile now, just a set jaw with intense eyes fixed on mine, and a flex of his hands at his side.

  “A lifetime.” I break his stare and look around at my fledgling cupcake shop and suddenly feel completely inadequate. My cozy, little bakery compared to his larger-than-life public career. I wipe my damp palms on my apron, smear some frosting in the process, but am too overwhelmed seeing him again to care. I take a few steps forward, nerves suddenly jittering within, and have never been more thankful for the counter in between us as I am right now. A barrier. Some distance. Anything to break the pull those eyes of his have always had on me.

  I glance over to DeeDee. I don’t have the wherewithal to try and figure out if the shock blanketing her face is because the famous heartthrob, Hollywood A-Lister Hayes Whitley is standing in Sweet Cheeks or because he obviously knows me somehow.

  Her eyes flicker back and forth between us in an uncomfortable silence, amplified with years of unanswered questions before she nods as if she knows we need a moment to ourselves. She glances back to Hayes for a second and then leaves us alone.

  I turn to physically watch her retreat into the kitchen area and use the few seconds to try and get over the shock of seeing him again. But when she disappears, I have no choice but to turn and face him. Unsure of what to say, I address everything but the elephant in the room. “Congratulations on all of your success.”

  “Thank you.” His voice is soft—almost apologetic—and it pulls my attention to look closer to see the unspoken questions flitting through his eyes. He begins to speak and then stops. Hesitates. Looks down at the cupcakes in the case beside me then back up to me. “You look great, Saylor.”