by Bromberg, K
I roll my eyes. “So you’re sleeping together.”
“On screen, yes.” His voice is unapologetic and yet a small part of me feels like he is toying with me. Gauging my reaction.
“And off screen.” I chuckle but question why I care. Jesus, Saylor, stop asking.
“Is there a reason you care?” He steals the thought from my head and doesn’t stop staring, so I shift my gaze to the ocean ahead, wondering the same thing.
The difference is I know why. I care because of that fluttery feeling I get when he smiles at me, the warmth that flushed through me when he put his arm around me on the way out of the little restaurant where we grabbed a quick bite to eat. I just don’t want to admit it.
“No. Not at all.” Uncomfortable under the weight of his stare, I let the silence fall between us. A steel drum is heard somewhere in the distance. The intermittent buzz of tourists’ laughter or shuffling of footsteps meandering through this sleepy Caribbean town can be heard behind us. I watch some local children play in the water, some in suits, some not, as their parents watch from the ocean’s edge.
“It’s nothing serious,” he says unexpectedly. “In fact I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”
“Huh.” I let the comment settle between us, enjoying the fact that he didn’t have some huge farewell session with some beautiful starlet before coming to hang out with me.
“You’re awfully quiet, Ships.”
I can’t help my smile. The nickname not so bothersome now. “Yeah. I’m just trying really hard to enjoy tonight. To not think about the next few days. To—”
“Enjoy the company of the handsome man beside you.”
I laugh out loud and love that he can do that to me. Just like he did earlier as we sat in the local recommended favorite, Fresh Catch, while we ate our appetizers and sipped our cocktails. When we talked about our childhood escapades and arguments, steering clear of everything that happened after there was an us, and the aftermath I still don’t understand. I had promised myself I wouldn’t bring it up again while here.
It’s the least I can do considering he’s here, doing who knows what for me in this atypical situation.
I look over to him—wind-ruffled hair and dimples deepening—and think he’s so much more than handsome. He’s comfort and my past, mysterious yet familiar, funny and yet aloof.
“Yes. That too.”
“Why are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.” My too quick response says I’m anything but. His chuckle tells me he doesn’t buy it. “You know me, I’m not good with the unpredictable. With putting myself out there when I know everyone in the room will be looking at me.”
There’s an intensity in his eyes that unnerves me. Like he’s searching for an answer I can’t give him. “The girl I used to know didn’t care who was looking.” His voice is quiet, and I hate the urge to immediately refute him. To be defensive. Especially when I’ve wondered the same thing as of late. Distance from Mitch has only proven how much the time spent with him had changed me. Toned down my personality.
I shrug. Almost in an apology to him when it should really be to myself. “Maybe it just depends on who’s looking, I guess.”
He licks his lips and nods his head as if he understands, but the shift of his eyes and set of his shoulders say differently. Hayes lifts his face to look at me again. “Well, I guess I should warn you, you’re with me so don’t worry, when people are staring, it’s at me.” I think he’s dead serious at first, but when he cracks a smile, I can see he’s trying to put me at ease.
“Ah, I see. The famous Hollywood actor,” I tease but know he’s right. The glances at dinner. The interruptions on the boardwalk for a quick picture. I truly appreciate his attempt to lessen my anxiety.
He blows on his knuckles and pretends to polish them on his chest and winks at me. “So remember every time you think they’re looking at you—”
“They’re really looking at you,” I finish for him.
“Exactly.” He nods for emphasis. “And for your information, I have a very detailed schedule of how the next few days are going to go if that will help you with your need for predictability.”
I jerk my head in reaction. “There’s a schedule?”
“Yes. There was a schedule for the wedding handed to me when I checked in. It’s all mapped out for us. Golf for the guys and salon day for the ladies tomorrow.” He rolls his eyes. “No worries, I promised you no golf, and I mean it. We’re not going. We’ll make ’em sweat. Give them a chance to gossip about the rumor we’re here. Did you bring the invitation like I asked?”
“Yeah. Why?” I narrow my eyes.
“Because I bet you they never told Uptight Ursula they invited you. They did it to mock you, never expecting you to show. I want to make sure you have it on you in case she attempts to kick you out—”
“Hayes?” I have to get something off my chest.
“Yeah.” Eyes looking. Expression perplexed.
“I’ve thought a lot about this, and I just want to make sure you understand that I’m not here to ruin their wedding. That’s not the type of person I am. Every little girl dreams about their wedding day and who am I to say that Mitch isn’t Sarah’s Prince Charming? Just because he wasn’t mine, doesn’t mean he’s not hers.” I twist my lips, look down at where my fingers are drawing aimless designs in the sand before looking back up to him. “The only reason I’m here is to prove I’m okay with it. To show that leaving Mitch was a good decision for both of us. He’s happy and marrying someone else. Only someone who is ashamed runs and hides, and I am not that. I want my business to thrive and if there’s a chance that coming here—to be smiling and supportive and giddily confident—will prove them otherwise, then I have to take it. If I hadn’t come and Sweet Cheeks failed, then I’d always wonder . . . and I’m sick of wondering things.”
My words trail off, my voice breaking on the last few words. I hate that I brought the conversation back to where I swore to myself it wouldn’t go—to where everything seems to lead these days—to thoughts of us back then and the what-ifs I’ve lived with.
We consider each other in the dimming light, each passing second feeling like it’s erasing the years since we’ve seen each other. Brown eyes to blue. His silence to my comments.
“I knew you were still the same girl I used to know.” His voice is a murmur. I look down to catch a dart of his tongue to lick those lips of his, and then meet his gaze again. “I know what your intent is, Saylor. You’re too kind to want anything less. You’re selfless. Forgiving.”
“I thought you said I hold grudges.”
“Only with me.” He smirks. “You always did. Let’s hope I’m on my best behavior this weekend so you don’t hold any with me by the time this is over.”
“Good plan.” I laugh again and realize it seems like forever since I laughed this much over absolutely nothing. It’s a good feeling.
“Getting back to plans—”
“Ah yes . . . tomorrow, we’re ditching the salon and golf because your nails are already done and golf is boring as fuck. So we’ll do our own thing. I have to run some lines for a part I’m screen-testing for when I return and then we have the rehearsal dinner that they’ve invited their guests to. The wedding the following day. The reception. Then—”
“No more.” I cover my ears and laugh. “Thank you. Really. I’m relieved to know you have all the particulars of our schedule worked out. Seems like the normal wedding events. And those I know all too well. I can rest easier now.”
He chuckles and all of a sudden my back straightens. “That’s their schedule, Ships. Ours is a secret.” He abruptly stands and grabs my hand to pull me up. My body jolts at the connection that sitting side by side with him all this time has had buzzing just beneath the surface. As if knowing he was close enough to touch but not really touching was an awareness all in itself. I know he can feel it too. That I’m not alone. Because the words on his lips falter momentarily before he recovers. An
d a part of me wants to stay like this a bit longer but know it’s just that missed connection we lost so long ago that’s causing the sensations to simmer to the surface. Nostalgia. Muscle memory of the heart. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
“Go?”
“Yes. Go. It’ll be easier if you think of this whole trip as an adventure rather than their wedding.”
“And what? You’re my tour guide?”
“If that’s what you want to call me. I prefer cruise director though, considering we’re kind of stuck with the nautical theme, Ships.” He winks and holds his hand out.
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes.
“Or captain.”
“You’re certifiable, you know that?” I shake my head and he pulls on my hand to help me stand.
“Quite possibly, but all that matters is I’m in charge of this schedule, and we need to get a move on it. Your adventure awaits.”
“And, oh captain, my captain, that adventure is what?” I drag my feet like a child, curious what he’s talking about but smiling nonetheless.
“Do you actually think I’m going to tell you?” He dazzles me with that smile I can’t resist. “Didn’t you know? Spontaneity is the best kind of adventure.”
Oh. Shit.
Saylor
“No way. Uh-uh.” I try to step away but my back hits the unyielding wall of Hayes’s front. We’re pressed body to body and panic flickers through me.
“Remember what I said.” His voice is warm against my ear.
Spontaneity is the best kind of adventure, my ass. I tried to do this once before. On a double-dog dare at the age of sixteen. From him.
I turn around, a blatant rejection of Hayes’s idea of spontaneous fun. Of the stage before me, the people sitting in chairs around it, and the microphone and screen that will hold lyrics.
And yet when I do turn, I run smack dab into every long, lean, firm inch of him. My body reacts immediately to the feel of his. Hair stands up on the base of my neck. My nipples press against the smooth fabric of my bra and are more than aware of the warmth of his chest. My muscles tense everywhere.
All I can do is suck in my breath when his eyes hold mine. They’re full of the same mischief that paints his smile. “Remember that time at Wild Irish?”
“How could I forget?” Sneaking in the back door of the local bar a few towns over, feeling like we were so cool. The anxiety of being caught in a bar underage making the night that much more exhilarating. Hayes’s dare to go put my name in, take the stage, and perform a song of his choosing.
“Remember how much you had to psych yourself up to do it?” he murmurs. I can smell the hint of Red Stripe on his breath.
These are treacherous waters.
But it’s The Captain leading me into them.
I laugh. My body hums with awareness. He hasn’t stepped away. Hasn’t broken the connection between our bodies. And yet it’s probably because it’s crowded and he wants me to hear him. Regardless, every jostle of someone bumping into one of us, makes the awareness that much more.
“I remember. I spent all night freaked about it and just as I was walking up to the stage—”
“Principal Hellman walked up right before you.”
We both laugh at the memory. At how I scurried back to the table in the far, darkened corner of the club before leaving shortly thereafter.
“My God, I was so freaked out we were going to get detention or worse if Hell’s Bells saw us there.”
Our laughter fades. Somewhere in the moment we’ve stepped apart when the crowd has given us room to. “So what do you say, Ships?”
“To what?” I feign nonchalance but worry my bottom lip between my teeth.
“You never finished the dare.” He shrugs. Taunts me with a smile and a glance of his gaze to the stage and then back to me.
“Seriously?”
“You were never one to chicken out before.” Words to match his smile.
“We’re not teenagers anymore, Hayes,” I huff but know he’s starting to win me over. That sheepish grin and impish gleam in his eye reminding me of the fearless, carefree girl I used to be. The one who never backed down from one of his or Ryder’s dares.
He leans in, mouth to my ear. “I double-dog dare you, Saylor.”
My smile is instant. My reaction is half-hearted. “You know I can’t sing for shit,” I shout above the music that just started playing again. His hands are on my shoulders, directing me toward the stage, the melodic tone of his laugh in my ear.
“Perfect. There’s nothing better than an off-key karaoke singer to catch everyone’s attention.”
I want to strangle him, and yet I find myself laughing instead. I grab his hand, and his falter in motion tells me I’ve caught him off guard. “If I’m going to make an ass out of myself, you are too.”
I’m surprised when he stumbles along behind me. “Did you forget I like when everyone’s looking at me?”
* * *
“I don’t care. No one is going to convince me otherwise,” I say, in an attempt to sound serious despite the smile that hasn’t left my lips since we started our dominating karaoke run on the mic.
His laugh echoes off the concrete as we weave through the outdoor corridors of the hotel. “You need help.”
“Says the man who demanded he be called The Captain every time the announcer summoned us to the stage despite everyone knowing you were Hayes Whitley.” I giggle as he hangs an arm over my shoulders and pulls me against him for support. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I don’t know and I don’t care because I’m having more fun in what feels like forever and it’s all because of him.
“Says the woman who sang, ‘Might as well face it you’re a dick with a glove.’” His laugh rings out again.
“And what is wrong with that? Look it up. I bet you . . . I don’t know what I bet you.” I slur my words a little bit. “But I assure you those are the correct lyrics that Robert Palmer sings.”
“No. It’s addicted to love, Ships. Addicted to love,” he enunciates while fighting back the laugh. “Not a dick with a glove.”
“Hmpf.” I try to pout but it’s just no use. His words are sluggish too and his body so warm against mine. I feel lighthearted after so much weight lately that all I can do is smile and laugh and not want the sidewalk to end at our door where I can see it does a few yards ahead.
“Are you going to pout?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are, and I’ve got the perfect cure for that.” In a completely unexpected move, he takes my arm and twirls me out and then pulls me back in. Paradise spins around me. It keeps moving even when I land solidly against him.
Our laughter fades and our smiles slide into parted lips. His hand still holds mine against my lower back and his chest moves against mine. My face lifts up as his tilts down and our eyes fasten on each other’s. There’s an earnestness I haven’t seen in his before. There’s also amusement. Such an odd combination, almost as if he can see things I don’t want him to see just yet.
Kiss me.
Oh my God. What am I thinking? He can’t kiss me. It’s a horrible idea. Too many reasons to list why he shouldn’t.
And yet I want him to kiss me. Just once.
So we can get it out of our systems, put the past to rest, and move on. But then again, would I be able to move on?
Even at the age of seventeen, Hayes could kiss in a way that made me feel like I’d just laid every part of my soul on the line when his lips left mine. And I’m not sure I can handle feeling that right now. Every part of this situation already makes me feel so vulnerable and exposed as it is. Add in being confused over how the kiss would make me feel and that’s not something I need to add to the mix.
Yet as the silence stretches, neither of us move. And when his eyes flicker down to my lips and then back up to my eyes again, I don’t think I ever want to.
My desire wars against my better judgment.
His body is warm and firm against mine. A tangible temptati
on that’s hard to resist.
Just kiss me.
I wait for him to. I want him to.
And then I realize what an idiot I’m being. How he’s probably thinking how pathetic I look standing here waiting to be kissed in the moonlight like some pathetic sap. Embarrassed and flustered, I step back needing to create some distance from him.
“I’m sorry.” I turn and walk to the front door.
“Saylor.” Hayes calls out to me and I tell myself to keep walking. That there is a famous starlet named Tessa who he isn’t dating but most likely sleeps with. That there is a world of difference between our two lives—glitz, red carpets, and glamour versus frosting-spattered hair, Nutella, and NetFlix—and even if we share a kiss, nothing will lessen that chasm.
I’m such a wreck. I’m over here turning a playful twirl in the moonlight into a kiss I don’t want to want, to fantasizing how it would lead to my happily ever after.
He calls my name again as his footsteps sound on the pavement behind me. I don’t want to face him right now and yet as I reach the door, I realize he’s holding the key to unlock it. Fucking perfect. A self-deprecating laugh falls from my mouth. There’s a tinge of hysteria to it. A bit of disbelief fringing its edges from my out-of-control imagination.
My sudden irrationality has to be a combination of everything jading my thoughts: the alcohol, the fun evening, the comfort of being with someone who used to know everything about me, the indescribable paradise surrounding us. It all contributes to the Saylor was almost going to make an ass out of herself moment I just had. I guarantee that won’t be happening again anytime soon.
He’s right behind me now. I can feel him before I hear him.
“Say? What is it?”
I hang my head. Hate that so many of my thoughts are on the tip of my tongue, and yet I say none of them because they are absolutely ridiculous.
His hand is on my shoulder, prompting me to turn to face him. But I resist. I don’t want him to see the embarrassment stinging my eyes or read the errant thoughts that have no business being there.
