by Bromberg, K
“You okay?”
She looks down at me: lips parted, eyes wide, and fuck if the look on her face— innocent, complicated, pure Saylor—doesn’t make me think of the pressure of her fingers again. “Yeah.” She swallows and nods. “I’m fine. Just caught me off guard.”
“Okay.” I shift up. Figure that’s the best way to get her hand off my thigh. Try to be the good guy here. And the minute I move, she immediately jerks her hand back as if she didn’t realize it was there. Good thing her hand’s not on my thigh now. Bad thing? Bad thing is her lips are inches from mine.
I smell her perfume. See the moonlight in her hair. Hear her draw in a breath. And hell if I don’t need a distraction from stepping over a line I can’t cross.
The sway of her ass tonight at the club.
The sound of her laugh as she climbed the steps up here.
The way she went from fiery to cute in a goddamn second.
Step back, Whitley. Way the fuck back.
“You were saying something about being invited, Saylor?” Distraction. Get the conversation back on track. And my thoughts off of her lips.
“Uh. Yeah.” She shakes her head as if to clear the moment we just had and reaches forward to pick up nothing in particular to have a reason to shift away from me. “Ryder’s lost his mind.”
“And that’s something new?”
I get the smile I was working for but this time it’s more shy than confident. She plucks at the legs of her pants with her fingers. I wait.
“We both agree that Mitch sent the invitation as a kind of fuck you to me, but Ryder thinks I should play him at his own game. That I should accept the invitation and show up at the wedding. He believes the Laytons are badmouthing the bakery and that’s why it’s not doing too well. That they have enough pull with the people in this town, so now I’m like a pariah or something. I don’t know.” She shrugs and chews the inside of her cheek as she pauses for a moment. I can tell she’s hurt by the possibility that her brother’s assumption is true. The girl without a mean bone in her body. “He thinks if I were to stride into the wedding I walked away from and exude absolute confidence, like I knew for a fact that I had made the best decision ever by not marrying Mitch, it wouldn’t go unnoticed. In fact, he thinks that since it’s likely most of the guests have been told horrible things about me, seeing me so unaffected would make them curious. They’d wonder what I know about Mitch that they don’t, and curiosity might lead them to check out the bakery and—”
“And curious people will come to the store and possibly generate business.”
She looks at me, surprised I’ve come to the same conclusion as Ryder, and I cringe inwardly in case I’ve revealed too much.
“So you think he’s right?”
“I think there’s some merit to it,” I muse.
“Why?”
I think of Jenna. Of the burden I’m bearing to play a similar game all for image’s sake. And know if I am doing it for her, and how it could affect my career, I sure as shit will help Saylor if she asks. Now I just need to convince her of that.
“Because I see it every day. Take an actress who breaks up with an A-Lister. There are rumors as to why but no one knows the truth and neither of them comment publicly about their split. All of a sudden, the press wants nothing to do with her. She’s overlooked for parts. Not invited to any parties. She might even be snubbed by their friends if they run in the same circles because it sucks, but people don’t want to piss off the one who has the most power in the relationship.”
“Because that’s fair. Sheesh.”
“Yeah, but she gets the last laugh. She somehow gets her foot in the door somewhere. Shows up looking ten times better than she did before with some star or director or mogul more powerful than her ex on her arm, and it’s amazing how suddenly the people who wanted nothing to do with her are now knocking down her door to be her best friend.”
“Shallow assholes,” she mutters, and I’m pretty sure she’s ticking off names in her head of who that criticism matches.
“Very. But that’s life.”
“In your Hollywood bubble, maybe. Not mine,” she grumbles as if she’s seeing this through different eyes for the first time and is begrudgingly accepting it.
“Not my bubble at all.” I laugh with a shake of my head, needing her to know I’m not like that in the least. She glares at me and I’m not sure why. Is she putting two and two together?
“So what? I’m just supposed to fly there and show up at the wedding? Twiddle my thumbs while acting confidently, and then that’s all it will take? The tide will turn?”
“No.”
“No? Ah yes, I forgot. In order to appear self-assured, I apparently need to have a big, powerful, strapping man at my side because that’s the only way a woman can be confident, right?” Bitterness.
Can’t say I blame her.
“Not in my eyes, but in theirs? Possibly.” My comment settles between us. She rolls her shoulders. Her only physical tell of how pissed she is over this.
“So what? I’m just supposed to say, ‘Hey Hayes, wanna ditch your filming schedule and glamorous life and go on a ridiculous trip with me to my wedding that’s no longer my wedding?’” I hate the part of me that loves I’m the one she thinks of when she needs a man to accompany her. “Like you’d really fly to some island with me, so we can show my ex-fiancé and his family and uptight friends that I’m better off without him, because I’m “fake” dating you instead. A man who is so much bigger and better and more successful and handsome than he is? Like that’s going to happen.”
“Why wouldn’t it?” That stops her rant. Knocks the sarcasm from her last sentence.
Her head whips up and her eyes meet mine. Hand stops halfway to her hair as a disbelieving laugh falls from her mouth. “You’d actually go?”
I shrug. “Yeah. Why not? I could use a little R&R with someone I know and who doesn’t expect anything from me.” Something flashes in her eyes that I can’t read. “Besides, now that I remember him, Mitch always was an asshole in high school, I’d get some sick satisfaction from showing that fucker what he was missing out on by not being with you.”
“The irony,” she whispers and the two words hit me in the gut. The pang of regret not far behind it.
“Saylor—”
“No. Never mind. That was a cheap shot.” She says the words but the truth of them linger in her eyes. She reaches out and puts her hand on top of mine. “Thank you. The offer is sweet. The intent behind it even more so. But even if I wanted to, I’d never be able to pull it off.”
“Did you forget what I do for a living?” My laugh rings louder than it should. The Oscar on my shelf at home flashes in my mind as my need to convince her suddenly grows stronger than when Ryder first called. Greater than when I saw her earlier tonight. “I assure you we could pull it off.”
“We should leave.” She shifts to her knees suddenly and moves toward the door. I hate the hurt in her tone. Hate knowing that the fucker Mitch isn’t the only one who put it there.
I did, too.
“Saylor.”
“No. I’m tired. I need to get home.”
“Okay. Let me go down first in case you need help.”
She levels me with a glare for implying she can’t do it herself but I move past her, bodies brushing against one another, and take the lead anyway.
My feet are through the doorway when I look back at her. “For what it’s worth, Say, I think you should go. And I’d drop whatever to be there for you. It’s the least I could do.”
She doesn’t say a word to me, just nods as I lower myself out of her sight and down the rungs.
I’m on the ground in a few seconds, a very quiet Saylor not far behind me as I wait at the bottom. When she’s on the second step from the ground, her heel slips. Just as I step forward and reach out to her hips to help her, she spins around.
Our bodies are pressed against each other with her hands flat against my chest. Her expression
is startled, but her eyes remain on mine. Her breath an audible hitch.
And fuck if standing like this with her doesn’t make me want to lean in and kiss her. It all comes back: her taste, that little sound she used to make in the back of her throat, the scar on the back of her head from falling off the brick wall that I’d feel when grabbing the back of it to direct the angle of our kiss. All of it.
And it’s a temptation like I haven’t felt in forever.
“Hayes.”
“Yeah?” My gaze flickers from hers down to her lips and then back up. I want to know what her eyes are telling me.
“Nothing. Never mind.” She shakes her head and steps back.
I clench my jaw. Fist my hands. Tell myself to let her walk away. To not notice the freckles on her nose are still there. The ones I used to tease her about as a kid, then later, loved staring at when she fell asleep in the bed of my truck at the drive-in when we were teenagers.
The thought triggers so many more things I used to love about her. Reminds me how close we were. How many parts of our lives were woven so tightly it was like we were one.
My God. I know we were young. Know that I did the right thing in chasing my dreams since she was only seventeen and I was nineteen. But how selfish was I to leave without an explanation or a goodbye?
Ass. Hole. Yep. You sure as hell were one, Whitley.
And for that I deserve her understandable caution, every bit of her wrath, and every ounce of her hatred.
I start behind her down the worn path toward the car. Use the sight of her hips swaying to distract me from the memories rushing back.
My mind still runs but turns instead to how this was supposed to be easy. How I was going to come back, convince her to go to the wedding, and do my part to help her show up Mitch. Debt repaid just in time to walk away. Again.
And yet one look at Saylor the other day and I knew it was going to be far from easy. That combination of the fresh-faced girl-next-door I left mixed with the hurt and feistiness I see now, and I can’t help but wonder what if. What if I hadn’t left? And how did my leaving change her life’s path somehow?
Fuck that, Whitley. You did what you had to do. Took advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that definitely panned out.
But watching her ahead of me with the hurt in her eyes fresh in my mind, I know this is going to be harder than I expected.
Good thing she rejected the offer.
I have a plan. I have my world. My perfect, chaotic, surreal, fucking awesome world and there’s no room for error. She fits nowhere in it. That’s what I told myself when I left. That’s what I’m standing by now.
I’m just here to repay a debt to Ryder.
Just here to ease the guilt over what I did to her.
So why am I already thinking about the next time I can see her again?
Saylor
I wanted him to kiss me.
That’s my first thought when I wake up. How standing beneath the tree house with his hands on my hips and the moonlight in his hair in the field we used to play in as kids, I wanted him to kiss me. Lean in and take over. Wash away any of the doubt about why I walked away from Mitch. Rationalize why seeing him again makes me want in ways I shouldn’t want.
And then I move. My head pounds. My mouth’s dry. My hair is matted. And I’m still in last night’s clothes.
I want to die. Like throw my head in the toilet, and puke my brains out to make this roiling in my stomach, spinning of my head, and hot flash over my skin type of sick go away.
But I can’t. I think my body wants to punish me for being such an idiot last night. For thinking if I swung my hips enough or flirted with Ryder’s friends more, that it would make Hayes realize what he lost.
A foolish, amateur bullshit move. Like he hasn’t seen that one before from one of the million women who would do just about anything to be a notch on his belt.
And the joke’s on me as I lie in bed while the rest of the night—or what I remember of it—replays through my mind. How right now I probably couldn’t even dry heave if I tried so I can feel better, and yet last night I was able to word vomit every little detail about Mitch to Hayes. How I walked away from a perfectly good relationship and every little girl’s dream wedding. How Mitch invited me to watch him marry his successful, no doubt more-suited match. How I blamed Ryder for taking my RSVP response, twisting it every which way, and then planting the notion that I should attend because my presence might help the shop. All of it, right down to when he asked why I left.
I looked at Mitch and realized he didn’t make me feel how you had, Hayes.
The thought ghosts through my mind and I bolt up in bed. And then I hate myself when the room spins. But even worse is I can’t remember if I finished the thought aloud last night or if I had enough wherewithal to stop myself.
Shit. Shit. Double shit.
The refrain is constant until I remember that I didn’t finish the sentence. That I caught myself before making the monster of all mistakes.
Because that’s not why I didn’t marry Mitch. There was no comparison to Hayes then. Or Hayes now.
And yet as I lie back down to try and combat the drum beating against my temples, I can’t help but recall my first thought this morning: I wanted him to kiss me.
Was that why I walked away from Mitch? Did I subconsciously compare the way both of them made me feel and after seeing Hayes last night—after being reminded of that pulse-pounding, lower-belly ache that he made me feel with just a look my way—is that how I knew?
It’s nonsense. Utter bullshit. There’s no part of Hayes that belongs in my life.
Not his brown eyes or thick lashes.
It had to be the alcohol that made me think that.
Not his Hollywood life and glamorous parties.
It was the tree house. A step back in time to when the only things we knew about life was that it was simple and our lives revolved around each other.
Not his offer to help me now when he walked away before.
It was nostalgia. Déjà vu. Just a moment in time. A stupid thought that I’m better off forgetting.
Not the way he looked at me as he walked me to the door, made sure I got inside safely, before just staring at me. Eyes so damn intense with that muscle pulsing in his jaw that made me want to reach up and run my hand over it.
Stop it, Saylor. He was just being nice. Just offering to help you out because you ran your mouth about being invited to the wedding. He probably felt bad so he said he’d go with you.
Like travel to an exotic island just to help you out because he’s a nice guy type of feel bad.
But there’s no way in hell I’m going to Mitch’s wedding. I’m not desperate. I have nothing to prove and if I did, the last people I’d need to prove it to would be the Laytons and all their insipid, shallow guests.
Nope. I’m perfectly fine with my decision to walk away. And to tell Hayes thank you, but no thank you. Decision made.
Besides, it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again anyway.
* * *
“Thank you. Have a great day.” I watch sweet Mrs. McMann make her way out the door of the shop.
“The edges of this batch are a bit burned but definitely better since the repair,” DeeDee says as she walks out from the back, wiping her hands on her apron.
I sigh and silently thank the universe for letting the oven make it one more day, and not ruin another batch of cupcakes. “Thank God. Fingers crossed this repair holds us over because having to buy a new oven isn’t an option.” I cringe with the knowledge of how much a new one costs.
“For now, it’s holding its own—” The bells on the bakery door interrupt DeeDee, and her face transforms into a wide, goofy grin. I know immediately who is going to be there when I look over my shoulder.
And I won’t lie that my stomach flips at the simple thought.
So I turn around. A straight punch of lust mixed with surprise registers in a flash of a second when I take in the
dark brown eyes, lazy smile, board shorts, and tank top showing off biceps that I have to drag my eyes away from.
And just like the other two times I’ve seen him in the last week, my body’s visceral reaction to him wars against my innate ability to make a complete fool of myself in front of him. How did this man, who used to know every single thing about me, who was part of almost every childhood memory I have, now cause me to feel tongue-tied and out of sorts?
Because I’m a dork. That’s my only thought when his eyes light up the minute they meet mine. Thud. My heart shouldn’t feel like it was jump-started and yet it does.
“Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here.” I try to appear indifferent, and I’m proud I don’t sound like the high-pitched hyena I’m sure most women sound like around him.
“Yeah, well, I would have stopped by sooner but I was busy helping my mom sort through some of my great-uncle’s things.”
He hooks his sunglasses into the front of his shirt while I tuck both my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and rock on my heels. I fumble with words and how to string them together because the way he’s staring at me makes it hard to do anything other than stand there.
Did he always stare at me like this or is it just now?
“I, uh, wanted to thank you for making sure I got home okay the other night. I was in rare form.” I shrug. Heat warms my cheeks. “And I apologize for anything stupid I might possibly have said.”
He chuckles as he steps up to the counter between us. “Stupid, no. Cute, yes.”
I take a deep breath and glance down before looking back up to him. “I wasn’t so cute when I woke up the next morning with my head pounding.”
“I bet not, but sometimes you’ve just got to tie a few on to relax. No shame in that.”
“So what can I do for you?” Curiosity owns me.
“I’m hitting the road. Gotta get back since the production schedule rolls on. It’s the last two weeks of shooting.” I hate that a little part of me deflates at his words. Dislike the fact that, as much as he unnerves me in every way imaginable when I don’t want him to, I want him to stay one more day. I want to see him one more time.
