Sweet Cheeks (6 page)

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 me. 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.

Grabbing the remaining two boxes of his order, I make my way out of the shop to where he’s placing them in the trunk of a ridiculously sexy, sleek sports car. When he stands up and meets my eyes, a lock of hair has fallen over his forehead, and I’m reminded of who we used to be together. He takes the boxes from me without a word, sets them inside, and shuts the trunk. His eyes are on the keys in his hands as he walks slowly to the driver’s side of the car.

So many things I need to say to him, about what happened minutes ago and over ten years ago, and yet I think I’ve already said enough.

He rests his forearms on the top of his car, his eyes still focused on where his fingers toy with his keys. “You always were quick with that temper, Say. Used to cause a lot of problems for you. Seems it still does.” He lifts his face to meet mine but his sunglasses hide his eyes. “Thanks for the cupcakes. I’ll see you around.”

Without another word, Hayes lowers himself into the car. The engine purrs to life, rumbles in my chest, and he pulls out of the parking lot while I stand there watching him leave.

The difference is this time I know he’s leaving.

And at least I know why.

Was it my fault he left last time too? My impatience? My assumptions? Had I not read him then as I couldn’t read him today?
I hate the unanswered questions that drift through my mind and despise the doubts that weigh them down. Because regardless of how many times I’ve discredited them in the past, they still linger.

Still haunt.

I don’t know how long I stand there and stare but I’m well aware that DeeDee is waiting to pounce on me for information the minute I go inside. When I push open the door, the sight of her standing there—arms crossed, foot tapping, grin so big her cheeks might crack—confirms my suspicion.