by K. Bromberg
Seriously? That’s the bullshit Uptight Ursula is telling people?
“Yeah, but since she left him and called off the wedding—”
“Thank goodness,” Squeaky interrupts.
“Totally. Think of the bullet he dodged with that one. Marrying someone that’s not one of us? What was he thinking? But back to my story. I guess since the breakup, rumor from one of her suppliers whose dad knows one of Mrs. Layton’s house staff, is that business has slowed down considerably. Like making-no-profit slow.”
“Oh, poor thing.” Her laugh is pompous as I blink rapidly trying to figure out where the hell they’re getting this shit. I am the supplier. Me and my weekly runs to Costco. “Go back to how the other half lives, sweetheart.”
“God, yes. Leave the upper class alone, little girl.”
“No matter, I’m sure once Momma Layton is done badmouthing her, she’ll have to shut her doors.”
“Good riddance.”
“Agreed. You ready?”
“Of course. Saks Fifth Avenue is calling my name.”
Their voices fade off as they leave and I sit where I am. Stunned. Deflated. Furious.
That conversation was not a plant. Ryder would never go that far. I’d rather be wrong. Rather think that vapid, shortsighted people like them don’t exist in the world.
But it wasn’t.
They were real and they exist.
My hands tremble. Heated tears burn in my eyes because I’m pissed at myself for not telling them both to go to hell. For not standing up for myself and making a huge scene to make them feel like the shallow assholes they are. The problem is I’m so upset—so flustered—that even if I had turned around and said something, I know it would have come out a jumbled mess and made me look like the fool they were saying I am. Disgrace burns bright and it’s aimed one hundred percent at me for failing to find a backbone.
Their insipid comments repeat in my head. Their suppositions. Their judgments. Their everything.
So I do the only thing I can–my temper on fire, my mind dazed by its smoke. I dig in my purse until I find my phone. My fingers hit the wrong button several times as I fumble for the number. The one I recently entered in my contacts but swore I’d never use.
The phone rings. My body vibrates with a shame I shouldn’t feel, with an anger I own wholeheartedly, and with the notion that I was the naïve one thinking Ryder’s assumptions were wrong.
“Ships Ahoy?” He sounds as surprised to be receiving my phone call as I am in making it.
“I need your help, Hayes. Offer accepted.”
What am I doing?
Dread over my decision filled me on the plane. The memory of Hayes’s words about my temper and the situations it gets me in taunted me. So I forced myself to sleep. To remember the catty words of the women at Starbucks. To hold on to the notion that I’m going to save my business. My passion. My dignity.
The one Ryder helped me fund.
Is this really worth it?
Doubt increased with each step through the airport on the way to the baggage claim. Horrible scenarios played out in my mind. Ones with me losing the nerve to attend the outdoor ceremony, turning to flee in the moments before Rebound Sarah walks down the aisle, and running smack dab into Mitch. Like literally body against body so we both fall backward, me landing on top of him, my dress over my head, Spanx-covered ass in plain view for all the guests to see. Or of me walking into the reception, tripping and falling head first into the cake. All the guests turning to see me stand up, face covered in icing.
The irony, that I’d be covered in frosting—Mitch’s worst nightmare. But at least I’d be unrecognizable.
What if Hayes doesn’t show?
That’s my thought as the tropical air hits my face, and I take in everything around me.
The island is absolutely beautiful. The beaches are picturesque. Its main street colorful and full of sleepy island life as we drive through it.
I repeat the promises I made to myself when I stepped foot onto the plane at the crack of dawn this morning: I’m here to save my business and in the process put to rest the two men I’ve loved in my life.
Because saving my business is first and foremost. Proving to the Laytons and their friends that I’m confident and happy when I’m certain they assume the exact opposite.
And that leads me to my next promise to myself. To use the time here to rid myself of any lingering doubts I may have in regards to Mitch. To reaffirm that I made the right decision walking away and feel nothing for him other than complete indifference.
That and the need to prove to his shallow, smug guests that I don’t need them or their lifestyle and am doing perfectly fine on my own.
Of course that leads me to my last resolution: Hayes Whitley. And every single damn thing about him. I told myself I needed to let go of what happened ten years ago. Forgive him, although I’m not sure what to do with the hurt I’ve harbored within. And while it might be trickier than forgiveness, I also need to realize that I don’t need answers as to why he left. What’s more important is to focus on the fact that he’s taking a huge chunk of time out of his personal schedule to be here for me. To help me prove a point and redeem a few of the things I lost when I left Mitch—most notably a chance for my business to succeed.
I have a feeling there are a few other things Hayes is going to show me too. He always did have that knack. To bring things out of me that I never knew I had in me: to look at the world from a different light, to challenge me in one way or another, to make me see a situation differently. Even as a teenager I recognized that.
Hand in hand with that is the notion that I’m heading into this weekend knowing I’m not going to walk away unscathed when it comes to Hayes. It’s impossible not to.
The question is what exactly the damage will be. Will it be to my heart, to the memory I had of us, or to my ego?
I have a feeling it might be all three.
It’ll be pretty hard to protect myself when it’s him doing the damage. Again.
So I focus on the scenery. On the little boys with dirt-smeared faces playing soccer in the alley. On the lady selling her handmade bracelets on the corner. On the cobblestone streets lined with wandering tourists eating shaved ice, or the couples walking hand in hand sharing a kiss.
The scenery changes. The trees still lush, the views amazingly spectacular, but the coast with its hypnotizing water comes back into view and stretches endlessly. We turn onto a drive with its lavishly landscaped grounds. Palm trees and vibrant flowers rustle in the ocean breeze.
The cab slows when it pulls up in front of the hotel’s entrance, and for one quiet second, I forget why I’m here. A small thrill of excitement tickles the base of my spine as I exit the car. My head swivels from side to side when I take in the grandeur of the hotel and smile at the sound of accented voices while the bellhop takes my luggage from the trunk.
So this is how the other half lives, huh? Well, this girl from the valley is going to soak up every ounce of it while I’m here.
I can almost picture myself relaxing—a drink in my hand, my feet in the sand, the sun on my skin—as I walk into the lobby. It’s even prettier than the brochures and online pictures portrayed. But when the cool rush of air-conditioned air hits my face, it also brings me back to reality. Either the air or the huge sign on an easel with elaborate calligraphy that says, Welcome Layton and Taylor wedding guests. Because the sight of that sign hits me full force as to what I’m about to do.
My stomach churns instantly. I’m here to attend Mitch’s new wedding. Not mine. In the place I’d dreamed of getting married.
My bravado wanes on my walk toward the registration counter. To calm my sudden bout of nerves, I take in the marble floors beneath me and lush plants around me. I keep my eyes straight ahead, focused on the nice lady with the gentle smile welcoming me to the hotel, because I just realized that it’s quite possible I could run into Mitch, his parents, or any of my supposed friends with each corn
er I turn in this hotel.
The funny thing is, I was prepared for that. Told myself it was going to be easy to do. But words are often easy to speak until reality slaps you in the face.
And oh how they are hitting me, now.
“I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Seven Stars Resort, Miss Taylor. I look forward to making your wedding a memorable one. What can—?”
“I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.” One Rebound Sarah Taylor to be exact. “I’m not getting married. Just a wedding guest here to check in.”
Her eyes widen. “I’m so sorry. I thought . . . You look like—oh, my apologies. The wedding coordinator showed me a picture of Miss Taylor earlier, so I could greet her if she came to the front desk. And you look so similar. You could be sisters. I’m so sorry, I—”
“It’s okay.” I force a smile at the irony of the entire situation. More importantly, I was right in my assumption that just like everything else, Sarah looks like me too. I shouldn’t be surprised. But still . . . “Saylor Rodgers checking in, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. I do apologize for my error. I’d like to welcome you to the Seven Stars Resort and thank you for choosing to stay with us, Ms. Rodgers. Let’s see . . . we have you . . . Oh, we have you in the Copa Villa. Such a beautiful place.” Her fingers click over the keyboard as my brow furrows at why the name of the villa sounds so familiar. “And it seems your travel companion, a Mr.—oh—Hayes Whitley,” she says, eyes widening when she recognizes the name, “has already checked in so I’ll have Rico show you the way to your villa.”
The news that Hayes is here surprises me, considering his last text to me had said he’d arrive tomorrow, due to a scheduled meeting. I had welcomed the idea of having a day to myself to build up the courage to actually go through with this.
Little too late to back out now.
With a bit more resolve, I hold my head high and follow Rico through the lobby to outside. I’m in awe of the grounds as we walk. The brochures I’d poured over when planning come to life before me in a bittersweet yet surreal way. The sun is high in the sky as we meander down a path bordering the white sand of the beach toward the far end of the resort’s property. When the path ends, we are at a rather large bungalow, trellised with greenery and positioned for privacy.
Oh my God. The Copa Villa. The most private and expensive of all of the villas in the resort. I remember it now. Mrs. Layton’s insistence that this was where Mitch and I should spend our first night together as a married couple. How when I looked at the ridiculous room rate, I laughed out loud. And when the humor subsided, I’d been too embarrassed to tell her there was no way I could afford it. How I lied about booking an Internet deal for the vacation package to justify why I said that no upgrades were allowed. And of course she’d seen right through the lie. Knew I couldn’t afford anything else on my already maxed-out credit card and then insisted she personally foot the bill.
I shake my head thinking of that argument. How it should have been a warning sign to me how controlling she could be. But I didn’t back down. No. I stood my ground and held firm to my dignity. It was so very important to pay for some part of my wedding instead of letting the Laytons happily foot every cost.
It was the only time in my years with Mitch that I saw her back down.
And so much irony now with the fact this is where I’m staying with Hayes.
Hayes.
I’m so furious at him. How dare he pay such a ridiculous amount to stay here this weekend? He’s already doing enough as it is.
Maybe it’s a security thing. He needs to be away from other guests for his safety? Perhaps. I try to talk myself into the notion so that when I walk into the villa and see him, I’m not grumpy right off the bat over this.
Then the thought creeps in my mind and I don’t even bother biting back the chuckle that falls from my mouth. Rico looks back at me, and I just shake my head that I’m okay. I wonder what Squeaky, Nasal, and Mrs. Layton will think if they find out where I’m staying.
And then I wonder if there is nothing but the best for her son, where exactly are Mitch and Sarah staying on their wedding night if we’re staying in the villa?
Guess this girl from the valley gets the last laugh after all.
Rico slows and hands me the keycard with a promise my luggage will be delivered shortly, smiles, wishes me a good day, and then leaves me alone with a whole new set of nerves for a completely different reason.
I feel like an imposter the minute I step inside the luxurious villa. It has clean lines and warm colors. A cool breeze filters down the hall and teases the hair that’s fallen from my ponytail so it tickles my cheeks. I move through the foyer and down the hallway to a decadent great room. Wow. What a view. My feet falter as the back of the house and its wall of glass come into sight. Its pocket doors are open wide so the ocean breeze flows in and swirls the curtains on the bay windows to the side of me. The aqua water and white sand of the beach is just a few feet from the covered veranda beyond the sliding doors.
The kitchen is to my right: spacious granite countertops, huge island with brown rattan stools, and stainless steel appliances with white cabinets. When I turn to my left to take in the sitting room—luxurious leather couches and soft pillows—I stop midstride.
Lying sound asleep on one of the couches is Hayes. One arm bent and resting above his head, the other falling slightly off the couch, legs crossed and propped up on the armrest. His shirt is off, and his board shorts hang dangerously low on his hips.
My feet move in reflex, my eyes fixated on him—on everything about him—as I take the few steps down into the living room toward him. He’s so damn handsome, my breath catches.
Removing both the gilded lights of Hollywood and my veil of contempt, it’s impossible to deny how striking Hayes is. In so many ways. And seeing him like this—completely relaxed—I’m in awe over how the boy I used to love has become this man.
Because he definitely is a man.
All six foot plus of him is filled out now, firm and muscular. My eyes roam over defined pecs, sculpted abs, and toned legs prompting a memory of the skinny boy with two missing front teeth who used to knock on the front door and ask if Ryder could come out and play.
The smile is automatic as I see the scar on the right side of his abdomen, a jagged, white line barely noticeable unless you know to look for it. I think back to the brace-faced teenager who would just walk in my house without knocking.
“Double dare you, Whitley!”
I can still hear my brother at twelve years old. Still hear Hayes boast how easy it would be to clear the fence from a dead standstill. Can remember the shout of triumph as he cleared it, but then the cry of pain when he immediately lost his balance, and fell onto the jagged rock on the other side. Then the concern on my mom’s face as she drove him to the doctor’s office to get the stitches that made the scar.
I study his face: the day’s growth on his jaw, the fan of his dark lashes against his cheeks, his perfect lips.
I remember those lips. Everything about them. The way they felt against mine. The way his eyes seemed to smile when they curved up. The promises he made me with them. The love he professed with them. The words he didn’t say with them.
I shake my head. Sigh. Pull myself from the memories that seem to come in a constant flood when I’m around him.
Maybe I’m just having trouble processing the teenage boy I once knew with this man in front of me. How can I still feel the sting of his rejection—after all this time—and yet have that sweet ache stir deep in the pit of my belly from just staring at him?
He shifts and I startle. Sleep-drugged eyes flutter open and look up at me. A lazy grin follows. A glimpse of the little boy shines through causing my heart to jump in my chest.
“Hey, you made it.” There’s gravel to his voice. Sincerity too.
“Just got here,” I murmur as he scrubs his hands over his face. I force myself to step back and create some distance. I tu
rn and look out the window to the beautiful scenery beyond and listen to him shifting on the leather behind me.
“Your flight okay?”
“Yes. Thank you. It was my first time.” I blush even though he can’t see it and hate that I just invited him to follow up on my comment.
“First time flying?”
“No. First class.” I keep my feet moving. A way to abate the restlessness I feel from the possibility of running into Mitch, or old friends beyond the villa’s walls, and from being in such a small space inside it with Hayes.
“What? You mean Mitch never—?”
“No. We never really traveled. And if we did—”
“Wait a minute. You were with the guy for six years. A guy who constantly brags about how much money he has.” I turn and level him a look, curiosity in my eyes over how he’d know that. He rolls his eyes as he rises from the couch. “Yes, Saylor. I checked out his social media accounts. All the prick posts about is his privileged life with pictures to show what a high roller he is . . . So sorry, I’m a little surprised that he can spend a bazillion dollars on boys’ weekends to the Hamptons and San Francisco, and yet he can’t fly his fiancée first class. Call me judgmental. Call me a jerk. But that kind of bugs me. You should be more important than his boys.”
Hayes’s words throw me for a loop. His assessment of Mitch’s character from Facebook posts alone is dead on. An assessment I’ve only been able to see with the passage of time and distance from our relationship.
I feel a sudden sense of validation over opinions I’ve had. Odd that Hayes of all people provided that.
“Thank you.” My voice is quiet, eyes still on his so I see the moment they soften. I chuckle at a memory of something that bugged me but I never felt I had the right to be angry at because it was his money he was spending. “I used to call him Golf Boy. Tease him that he’d rather go on trips with his buddies to hit par than be home with me. He hated that nickname.”
