Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  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 turn 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.”

  “And I hate golf so no worries. There will be no golfing at all on this trip. Deal?” The grumpiness I felt over him booking this villa disappears entirely as his lopsided smile warms me from the inside out.

  “Deal.”

  “Sorry. I know I overstepped.” He shoves his hand through his hair and his shorts slip down a bit with the movement. “But the more I think about this whole situation, the more pissed I get.”

  “Thank you, but . . . it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.” I chew the inside of my lip as we stare at each other for a moment.

  “Why?” His eyes ask the rest of the loaded question: why did I put up with Mitch’s behavior?

  The sad truth is, I hadn’t even realized I had. And I’m embarrassed to admit how insignificant I felt on a daily basis. So I keep quiet in this awkward silence between us and hope he’ll let it go for now. Pretend that he doesn’t see what I assume is humiliation in my eyes over allowing myself to be constantly devalued.

  We both startle when the doorbell rings announcing what I assume is the arrival of my luggage. Grateful for the interruption, I move to the door without a word but know he’s going to want an answer at some point.

  And hopefully I’ll have enough courage to tell him what I now know to be the truth.

  Because he wasn’t you.

  Hayes

  “Don’t call me again, Jenna. I’ve already done my part. Do yours.”

  “But Hayes . . . I’m . . . I’m struggling and really need you here right now,” she pleads.

  So says the actress. The queen of melodramatics. The attention whore.

  I grit my teeth and don’t buy into the lie this time. “No. You don’t. You’re perfectly fine without me.”

  “But Hayes—”

  “No, but Hayes, Jenna. You’ve texted me at least thirty times in the last few hours. I’m on vacation. This is my time. Not yours. Not the studio’s. Any problems you’re having, you’ve created yourself. So deal with them. I’ve gotta go. My cell will be off the rest of the trip.”

  I hang up my phone and clench my fists. I hate this nightmare I’m in but am so very thankful for the reprieve. For Saylor and a chance at temporary normalcy instead of the crazy of my life.

  Why the hell did I ever agree to go along with Jenna’s shit?

  I have no intention of turning my phone off but when a new text alerts—yet another from Jenna—I put it on Do Not Disturb. Shoving it in my pocket, I figure it’s time to get out of here for a while and explore.
But when I come to the doorway of Saylor’s room, I stop. Just stop and watch her unpack her things. Efficient in her movements, she never breaks from folding her clothes to look out the window where the breeze blows in to admire the crystal clear water. She’s all business.

  Everything about her trip here is. And yet I know from Ryder she’s been working nonstop to make the bakery a success. Starting her life from scratch after being with the prick for six years took courage. And then to realize her friends found the Layton’s clout and money more alluring than her friendship? That had to have been brutal.

  And lonely.

  How could they just drop her like that? Cut her out of their lives and forgo her friendship?

  Fuck. Pot? Meet kettle.

  The parallels between Saylor and me, and the fallout between her and Mitch, are getting a bit ridiculous now. Nothing like making me feel like I’m more of an asshole with each and every similarity that comes to light.

  But that’s why I’m here. To redeem myself. To heal old wounds.

  And it’s all of these revelations that confirm how hard it must have been for her to call me—the guy who hurt her just as badly—and take me up on my offer to help.

  She tucks some hair behind her ear and then tightens the sash on her robe. Those legs-for-days beg me to take a long look at them. And damn. They’re definitely worth a second look.

  It’s like I know her but don’t. It’s a fucked-up feeling for a man not used to caring at all. Not needing to.

  She continues her methodical movements. Unpack. Unfold. Refold. Place in the drawer.

  What happened to the spitfire personality? The screw-you attitude? The girl who didn’t care who was watching or what they thought? Is it because of that fucker? Did Layton steal that from her? Is that what her silence was telling me earlier when she told me he wasn’t worth it? Why would he tame the fearless side that made her who she was?

  Time to make her cut loose, and get the girl back I used to know with the wicked smile and wild eyes.

  Her phone rings. It startles both of us but her back’s still to me. “Dee, what’s up?” She pauses refolding a T-shirt. “Again? Seriously? Christ. Call the same place we used before. See if he can get the temperature to steady so you can manage until I get back. Then I’ll figure something out . . . Yeah. Thanks. I appreciate you taking care of it for me.”

  She tosses her phone on the bed and sighs out loud.

  “Five-minute warning.”

  She yelps and spins around. Her hand goes immediately to the opening of her robe on her chest, while her eyes—blue and wide—lower momentarily. Every woman loves the V. Thank fuck working out is part of my job for most roles because mine’s definitely defined.

  And she sure as shit just noticed.

  “Five-minute warning?”

  “Yep.” Eyes up here, Ships. Then again, feel free to look away. “That’s how much time you have to get ready before we leave.”

  Her lips shock into an O. My mind fills with images I shouldn’t have. Of what can slip between them. And it doesn’t help when I glance down to see her nipples tight against the thin material of the robe.

  “What do you mean?”

  Eyes up, Whitley.

  I hold my hand out to her. “First, I’m taking your phone away. And then we’re going exploring.”

  “You want my phone?”

  Among other things. If a robe is having this effect on me, causing me to want things I can’t have, then . . .

  “Yep. Mine’s gone off what feels like a hundred times already and is driving me up a wall, and by the sound of your call, yours is stressing you out, too. So I think we need to turn our phones off and unplug this weekend.”

  “Unplug? You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  A flash of her legs as she shifts her feet and her robe parts.

  “As a heart attack.” I look down to my outstretched hand and then back up to her eyes. “We’re in paradise, Ships.” One side of her lips curls up and I know I’m winning her over. “Send a text to Ryder or whoever that was and let them know your cell is off so no one worries that you’ve been abducted by Uptight Ursula. Then turn it off and hand it over. I’ll do mine at the same time.”

  She eyes me again. “Okay. Deal.”

  I nod and we both pick up our phones, fire off texts, and then she hands hers to me when it’s shut down.

  “Are you happy?” She lifts her eyebrows like she’s annoyed but I can tell she likes this idea.

  “Very. Now that that’s out of the way, it’s time to explore. Go check out the island and then have some fun here.” Her eyes look panicked from the suggestion. Fuck.

  “I figured you’d want to avoid attention. Hang out here so you’d have some peace and quiet and enjoy your anonymity.”

  Nice try, Ships, but that won’t fly this weekend.

  “I learned years ago that attention is something I can’t control. We’re on a tropical island, Saylor. In the middle of the ocean. There’s sand, sea, and fun to be had. Besides, getting out and about is the best way to make it known we’ve arrived. I assure you on this little island, word travels fast.”

  She bites her bottom lip and sits down on the bed. She really did think we were just going to sit here. And even though that’s what I had every intention of doing tonight, there’s no way we’re doing that now. Plans change. And I’m determined to get Saylor back. My old Saylor back.

  It’s time to go have some fun and find her.

  Right when she’s about to speak, to disagree, to reject, I look at my watch and then back up to those aqua blues of hers.

  “You’re wasting time. The clock’s ticking.”

  Saylor

  “Isn’t your new flame going to be pissed at you for taking off to a tropical island and leaving her at home?” I avoid glancing over to Hayes although every part of me wants to see his reaction to my question.

  I’ve seen the tabloids. The field day they’ve had with him over the past few months. Know his high-profile relationship with Jenna Dixon is over. That supposedly he cheated on her and she’s since gone into hiding to cope. Their fairy-tale relationship ended.

  The press has played it all out. The rumors have been printed and reprinted each time with a new spin to them. Speculations over who he cheated with cover the gamut of anyone he comes in contact with. And yet he’s remained silent the whole time.

  Does that mean they’ll target me, too?

  I shake away the thought. We’re just friends. Friends on a tiny island in the Atlantic Ocean at an all-inclusive resort. There’s no way anyone would even care about me anyway. I’m nobody in the Hollywood circle of need-to-know.

  I don’t even remotely resemble the women he’s been associated with, past and present, who have been floated about as possibilities. Besides, the most recent rumors state he’s dating Tessa Gravestone—his gorgeous and completely temperamental (if I believe the tabloids) costar. I’m curious if it’s true, and if so, what does she think about him being here?

  He chuckles and yet the sound is lacking any amusement.

  “Obviously you haven’t been reading tabloids lately or else you’d know I don’t have a girlfriend, Saylor.” Tone steadfast. Voice without hesitation.

  I risk a look to where he sits beside me, back against the seawall, bare feet in the sand, and am met with a lift of his eyebrows. A nonverbal, just ask what you want to ask, expression on his face.

  I snort at his response. He flashes a quick grin for some reason, and I just shake my head. “Aren’t you dating, whatshername though?”

  “Considering you don’t know what her name is, then no, I’m not dating her.”

  “That’s a cop-out answer if I’ve ever heard one.” And I do know her name . . . just don’t want to let him know that I follow his life in skewed tabloid ink.

  He shifts to turn and look at me. Eyes intense, head angled to the side, irritation obviously awakened. “Really?” he says dryly. “Considering the coals I’ve been raked over latel
y regarding Jenna and the accusations made about my character, I’d think saying I don’t have a girlfriend is a logical answer.” His expression is severe, lips tight as he waits for me to respond. There must be something in my countenance that questions him because he shifts and purses his lips. Starts to talk. Then stops. Starts again. “Go ahead and ask the question, Saylor. Ask me or believe them. Your choice.”

  And as much as I want to know if he cheated on his girlfriend, as important as it is for me to know he didn’t, I don’t say a word. There’s something about the look in his eyes, the irritation over the fact I might believe the rumors, that stops me from continuing. Because asking means I might be convinced it’s true and therefore don’t trust him.

  “Don’t believe everything you see, Saylor.” His tone is wry. A warning. “Even salt looks like sugar at first glance.”

  His comment makes me rethink my assumptions and puts me in my place. “No questions, Hayes.” I lick my lips and glance down to my fidgeting hands before looking back up at him. I wonder what is the truth and what is a front in a town that thrives on earning a living out of playing make-believe. “And honestly, I was talking about Tessa. Not Jenna.” I need to make myself clear. Let him know I was fishing but not about Jenna.

  “Oh,” he says, shy grin sliding over his lips. “Sorry. I get a little touchy on the Jenna thing.”

  I nod. Understand. I want to ask more but don’t because obviously there’s more to the story than meets the eye. He’s allowed to be upset over their breakup, considering how long they dated.

  “Well, in that case . . .” He laughs, his tone is teasing, and the mood suddenly eases again. His smile returns and there is mischief in his eyes.

  “Ah, Tessa.” It’s all I say. My own smile spreading despite the pang of jealousy that hits a little harder than I’d like to admit.

  “We’re working together.”