by Bromberg, K
“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.”
His unexpected words surprise me. The simple compliment flusters me. And while a small part of me preens that he notices how I look, I also know he’s lying. Being splattered in a ticker-tape parade of blue frosting doesn’t look good on anyone.
But I need this reminder of just how smooth Hayes Whitley can be so I can rein in the strange mix of emotions I’m feeling. The familiarity from seeing an old friend and the bitterness of being left behind by my first love.
I’d prefer to hold tight to the bitterness and anger than acknowledge that fledgling flutter of hope my teenage self must have held on to somewhere deep down. Someday Hayes might come back for me.
Don’t even think it, Saylor. That’s not why he’s here. Besides, he’s ten years too late.
“Thanks. You too.” I clear my throat. Dart my eyes. Try to focus on getting through the next few moments without blurting out the questions I’ve held on to for years over why he left me. Tell myself to let it go. After all, I did try. I’d messaged and called, time and again without a response after he first left. If he’d wanted me to know the answers, he would have responded.
But he didn’t.
End of story.
When the silence stretches, my eyes are drawn back to him.
Everything about him.
How kind the years have been to him. The dark shirt and designer jeans that look worn but probably cost more than the new display case I’d love to buy. He’s still as ruggedly handsome as before, still has that mysterious edge to him that drew me in as a teenager, but there’s more character to his face now. More lines and angles—a maturity to his features—that make me wonder what those eyes have seen. His body is bigger, broader, more filled out compared to the teenager I once knew, and yet it’s his eyes that hold me rapt. They’re the same warm brown, same dark lashes, but the intensity in them is new. The way he looks at me—unrelenting and thoroughly—leaves any words I was hoping to speak faltering on my tongue.
“I talked to Ryder last week. He told me about the bakery, so I figured I’d come in and check it out when I got into town.”
I stare at him, my mind spinning as to why my brother would tell Hayes anything about me. Years ago, we’d had a fight after I’d learned he and Hayes talked occasionally. I was livid and felt betrayed by both of them. Hayes couldn’t pick up a phone and talk to me, but he could do just that and talk to Ryder? And Ryder was okay being friends with Hayes after how he hurt me? The only solution we could agree on was a type of don’t ask, don’t tell policy. I didn’t ask if Ryder talked to Hayes, and he didn’t tell me if he did. That and the promise I’d never be a topic in one of their discussions.
So either Ryder’s been lying to me all this time or something has changed to make him break the latter part of our agreement.
I can think of a few options.
Ryder’s words come back to m
e. Cause that flutter of panic to trigger deep down inside me as pieces fall into place. The knowing look he gave me when he said that. The sudden appearance of the one man we both know is decidedly more successful than Mitch or any of the Laytons. And publicly so.
Holy. Shit.
My brother didn’t let the discussion, or his ridiculous thoughts about why I should go to Mitch’s wedding drop like I thought he had. Weeks have passed. Weeks! And suddenly Hayes Whitley appears out of the blue?
All it takes is a split second of time to conclude why Hayes is here. What Ryder has gone and done. And I die a slow death of indignity, my pride thoroughly obliterated.
Fury fires within: at Ryder for calling him; at Hayes for coming here, which could potentially twist my insides and bring back feelings, emotions, and memories when I don’t want to be reminded. I want to be angry at him—for leaving me, for never speaking to me again, for showing up here with that disarming smile and knowing look like he’s going to win me over in the blink of an eye.
Well, he won’t.
“I don’t need your help.” My pride wars on every level with the comment. My acknowledgement of why he’s here. My not needing him to think I look good or bad or anywhere in between. “Or your compliments.” I bite back the emotion swimming in my voice. The bitterness inflamed over time.
“Did I miss something here?” He draws the question out while I just stare at him, hands on my hips, the chip lodged firmly on my shoulder.
“I’m going to kill him,” I mutter under my breath choosing to focus my brewing anger at my brother because it’s easier than acknowledging the confusion I’m feeling.
His chuckle rings around the empty bakery. It scrapes over my soul and opens those wounds I thought had healed. “Well, good thing you said him so I can assume you’re talking about someone else.”
“You’re not far behind Ryder on the hit list.”
“You always were quick with that temper of yours.” A flash of a grin. A shake of his head. His unrelenting stare.
And I hate that he seems amused. I feel like I’m being mocked. Played. And every part of it grates against my sensibilities. My body’s visceral reaction to him—the undeniable attraction still simmering beneath the layers of resentment—battles against my mind’s staunch refusal to acknowledge him.
“You lost the right to know anything about me ten years ago.”
“Agreed.” He purses his lips and nods, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders shrugged up like he understands my position. And I don’t want him to be understanding. I want him to be the cocky asshole because I refuse to fall under that boy-next-door charm, I know from experience he can turn on like the flick of a switch.
Talk about mortifying. Having your brother call the one man who crushed you and asking him to be your date to your ex-fiancé’s wedding. It couldn’t get any more daytime talk show topic if I tried.
“I should have known better,” I mutter to myself, thinking how I thought I was in the clear on this. That Ryder hadn’t brought up the RSVP or Mitch’s wedding since the day he found the invitation and therefore the topic had been forgotten.
I’m going to kill him.
Repeating it in my head makes me feel better. Well, not really but it’s easier to focus on that than anything about the man standing before me.
My hands fist. My jaw clenches.
Hayes chuckles and yet all I hear is condescension. Mockery. “Do you mind explaining to me why you’re—?”
“Whatever Ryder told you I needed help with, I no longer need it . . . I’m a big girl. A grown woman who can handle her own life, so thanks, but no thanks. I’d like to say it’s great to see you, Hayes, but it’s not. While I appreciate the gesture, because I’m not that much of a bitch, it’s actually just uncomfortable knowing why you’re here. This has to be amusing to you to come back, after being asked by my brother no less, to play the part of escort to try and help the girl you dumped.” I stop for a second to catch my breath, the purge of words almost cathartic. His eyes narrow, forehead creases, and his head shakes as he looks at me like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. So I continue while my courage is winning out over the hurt and embarrassment. Hostility owns my voice. “Look, it’s been a long time and yet nothing’s changed. You’re still Mr. Perfect and I’m far from it, and the last thing I need is you here thinking you’re making it better when in the end it will just be worse. So I appreciate it, Hayes . . . I really do. It’s a nice gesture but it’s been a long day, I’m tired, and so I’m going to close up shop a little early tonight and forgo any more embarrassment for the day. Okay?”
I blow a breath out and just stare at him, impatience emanating off me with my stance—hands across my chest and teeth clenched tight—while he digests what I’ve said. I’m sure the look of shock on his face stems from the fact that no one probably says no to him now that he’s one of People’s Most Beautiful. Yet right now I can’t find the wherewithal to even care.
Until he speaks.
“Guess I underestimated your ability to hold a grudge, Saylor. But I get why you’re angry. I had my reasons back then, but the boy I was then is not the man I am now. I know what I did was chickenshit.” I hate the glimpse of emotion I see in his eyes but can’t read. It’s been too long, and I don’t know anything about the man he’s become to even try to assume what it is. All I know is the regret in his voice hits me and weaves through my anger but doesn’t penetrate the mortification I feel, knowing my brother recruited Hayes. How can he not think I’m desperate?
“Hayes.” I say his name. A request for him to stop. A plea for him to turn around and walk out the door without another word. A warning to just leave it be and forget everything Ryder told him. Anything so the teenager in me still clinging to her first love remains buried beneath the strong woman I’ve become. An apology is just a word and when it’s coming from an actor, I can’t trust its sincerity any more than I can trust myself not to believe it.
“No need. I understand,” he says as he holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ll just pick up my order and leave.”
“Order?” My voice breaks. The singular word has me standing straighter as dread begins to bleed into the edges of my temper.
I wrack my mind for an order I may have missed under the name Whitley. No order for his mother. No order for anyone I know associated with his family.
“Yes. It’s under Rosemont.”
Oh. My. God.
“That’s my mom’s maiden name.”
The blood drains from my face.
“I’m in town for my great-uncle’s funeral.”
He’s not here because of Ryder. Or me. Or some convoluted plan to be my date so I could seek redemption.
Shit. Shit. Double shit.
“I offered to pick up the order so I could . . . I don’t know.” He shrugs, voice tight. “I’d heard this was your place and wanted to see how you were doing.”
Do something. Say something. And yet I do neither as I stare at Hayes like a deer in the headlights. My mortification reaching new heights but for a different reason.
“Your great-uncle?” My voice squeaks and he nods his head, eyes never leaving mine. “Oh my God, Hayes. I’m so sorry. For what I said. I had no idea these were for your great-uncle. Or that he died. I–uh–I’m such an idiot.” I can’t stop stuttering out apologies as I move to the refrigerated case and busy my hands as if getting him the cupcakes faster will right the wrong I just made in unleashing my temper. I move each of the five boxes to the counter as quickly as possible in the hopes that my preoccupation and lack of eye contact during the time will allow me to recover some of my dignity.
“So there you are,” I say as I set the last box down. “One hundred twenty cupcakes, paid in full. I hope you . . . your great-uncle’s family thinks they are reflective of his service.” I keep my eyes trained on the boxes, my voice full of forced cheer as if I didn’t just make a complete ass out of myself.
Hayes’s hands come into my
view as they lift the pink and white striped lid of the uppermost box. I focus on them. I always had a thing for his hands. My mind flashes back. Lying on the Pendleton blanket in the bed of his truck. The trees swaying above us. The heat of him beside me. My fingers tracing over the lines on his palm. Our talk turning to our futures. Our hopes. Our dreams.
“Saylor?”
His voice calling my name feels like déjà vu, but it’s enough to pull me from thoughts I shouldn’t be having. My eyes flash up to his and I’m immediately brought back to reality. To the nerves suddenly vibrating through me. To that quick pang the memory caused.
“Yeah?”
“These are incredible. Thank you. My mom will love them.”
My smile is natural when I think of his mom. “Please give her my condolences. I didn’t realize the connection or else I would have called her. Sent her a card. Something.” I sigh, the awkwardness never ending. The curiosity in his eyes over what my rant was about never manifests itself into words, and I don’t volunteer the answers. I glance down to my fidgeting fingers and then back up to him. “Can you just forget everything I’ve said? I thought . . . I misunderstood something and I . . . can we just pretend like it never happened?”
Pretty please? My eyes beg him while my posture remains rigid.
“Sure.” That’s all he says. His expression is guarded and gives me no indication whether he thinks I’m crazy. If I were him, I’d be pissed if someone treated me like I did—made the assumptions I made—and he has every right to want to walk out of here and never want to see me again. “I’ll give my mom your condolences.”
He picks up the first three stacked boxes of cupcakes and I scramble around the counter. “Here, let me help you.”
“No. Please don’t,” he says as he heads toward the door. “I don’t need your help, either.”
I stop in my tracks as he pushes open the door with his hip and disappears outside. Pride has me needing to save face. The unknown I feel inside has me wanting to make things right so the lasting impression he has of me is not this schizophrenic woman.
