by Bromberg, K
His want for me to stay at home rather than work, versus my need to go out and create something for my own self-satisfaction. Our weekly bout of scheduled sex got the job done but never fulfilled that need within me to have the earth-shattering orgasm some of my girlfriends had bragged about. That want within me to smile automatically when I received a midday text from him rather than cringe wondering what I had done wrong this time.
I shake my head and recall the day the realization hit me out of nowhere. I was spending so much time obsessing about every single detail of our wedding, trying to make everything perfect, because if the wedding was perfect then the marriage was going to be too, right?
However, I wasn’t blind to my own bullshit. I had been so focused on selecting vows and table centerpieces and favor choices that when I had a day to sit and do nothing while Mitch was off on one of his boys’ country club weekends, it hit me like a ton of bricks.
“A part of me—one I’m really hating right now—thinks you’re brilliant.”
Ryder’s words pull me from the thoughts that have run a marathon in my head over the past six months. When I look toward him, my smile comes easily for the first time in the past hour. “It took you, what? Almost twenty-eight years to figure out what I’ve known all along—that I’m the smarter one?”
“Dream on.” He rolls his eyes.
“Then what are you talking about?”
“For the record, I still think your idea is horrible, but you might be onto something.”
“My idea? What are you talking about?”
“You’ve had the business for what? Ten months now?”
“Since it’s officially been up and running here at the store, more like eight. Why? What am I missing?” I set the piping bag down and lean back against the counter behind me.
“During that time, has it ever crossed your mind that the machine that is the Layton family may be influencing your sales?” I chortle out a laugh, immediately discrediting him. “No. I’m serious, Say. I know this is a big town and it’s just one family, but they are well known around here. Mitch’s uncle is a congressman and his father owns half the town. I think it makes more sense than not that they—”
“I doubt the Laytons are making a point in their busy lives to sabotage Sweet Cheeks. They’ve got small countries to run or something.”
“That’s not what I’m implying.”
“Get to the point then.” Patience. Gone.
“All I’m saying is, when there’s a breakup, people back away from the person they think is to blame, right? They typically side with the one they feel has been wronged.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Should I assume you’re referring to me as being the one to blame?” Crossing my arms, I hate that his comment miffs me.
“Yes. And no.” He takes a step closer and dips a finger in one of my empty frosting tubs and licks the dab. “Mitch’s friends have already proven to be shallow and judgmental. Proof being the way they basically cut you out of their lives after you broke it off. So . . . what if we turn the tide?”
“Dude. I love you. I’m sure you have a point to make. But, seriously? I’m not following your reasoning and have what feels like a million cupcakes left to frost, so can you please get to whatever you’re getting to so I can finish them?”
“It’s all about perception.”
I snort and roll my eyes at him. “And how is whatever brilliant thing I said going to make my business suddenly successful by changing the perception of my ex-friends? After how they’ve treated me, I would never really want to be friends with them again anyway.”
“Your little rant gave me an idea.”
What? “I was joking, Ryder.” Unease tickles the back of my neck.
“Just hear me out.” He holds his hands up in front of him. His chill out, Saylor look is on his face. “Let’s say you do show up at the wedding with someone who is better looking, more influential, more something in their eyes than their precious friend Mitch. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’d look at you in a different light.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I sputter the words out and immediately chastise myself for automatically defending the very people who hurt me.
“To us it is, yes. We were taught not to pledge allegiance to the friend with the biggest bank account but after how they’ve acted, it seems they do.”
“Fine. Sure. If that’s the case, then it’s a good thing I no longer associate with them.” I turn my attention back to the cupcakes, not wanting to waste another thought on them or wherever he’s going with this.
“You’re completely missing what I’m saying.”
“Then just say it.”
“I think you should go to the wedding. Do exactly what you joked about.” He smacks his hands on the butcher block for emphasis. “Walk in there with your head held high and act like leaving Mitch was the best damn decision you’ve ever made, even if seeing him feels like you’ve been punched in the gut. The fact that you’ve traveled thousands of miles and have enough balls to be there should make a huge statement in itself without you ever having to say a word.”
He’s lost it. Like totally lost it. “You forgot one thing. I don’t have balls.” I try to lighten the mood. Derail the topic.
“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 bac
k 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.
Hayes
“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.
Saylor
“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 fros
ting 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.”
