Sweet Cheeks (14 page)

I
stifle what feels like my hundredth yawn of the day. My head hurts. My body is exhausted. My emotions are frayed. The dream from last night still heavy on my mind.

The sip of coffee scalds my tongue as I look around Starbucks. I turn from where I sit, my back to most of the tables so I can watch the ebb and flow of people approaching the counter. Followed by their trip to the station to doctor their java and then the frantic search to find a seat in the always-packed café.

Regardless of how much I focus on people watching, my mind still veers back to the nightmare I haven’t had in forever. It had to be Hayes’s words last week. His reiteration of the promise he’d made then, and the reminder in his note that he’d still keep it now.

Why does he think I need to be protected? Does he think I’m going to need it?

Typical man. Riding in to save the day when the damsel is not in distress. Or his to save.

It doesn’t help that I had a fight with Ryder over how Hayes came upon the knowledge of Mitch’s wedding details. How Ryder had come into the shop early one morning when I was out picking up some supplies and pulled up the details about the rain check reservations from
my
wedding on the computer. How he then gave Hayes the travel voucher information so he could call and arrange the travel.
Our travel.

Or most likely his personal assistant did. The one he took the cupcakes to.

So needless to say he’s on my shit list. And conversely, I’m most likely on Hayes’s list since I had to ask Ryder for his phone number, then call him to politely refuse the tickets. His response of “The offer still stands,” not exactly the response I wanted.

That means the offer’s still open.

Even though I don’t want it to be.

Too much turmoil. Too many memories dredged up in such a short amount of time.
No
wonder
my head hurts.

I take a sip. Jot down a few ideas for the store: new flavors, new promotions, a change up in packaging. Anything to try and increase the sales. When I glance up, my smile is automatic when I see a lady at the only other table past mine, opening the distinct pink and white box—with the Sweet Cheeks logo displayed prominently on the front—and pulling one of my Chocolate Goodness cupcakes out.

A silly thrill goes through me at the notion that someone is choosing to eat my cupcake versus one of the items in the Starbucks pastry case. Realizing I’m staring, waiting to see her facial expression when she bites into it to see if she enjoys it or not, I force myself to focus back on the notes in front of me. Just as I’m poised to write my next item I hear a comment behind me that gives me pause.

“Yes. Those are the cupcakes from
her
shop.”

“Pfft. She better enjoy them now because that place will never make it. Never.”

I freeze at the last comment. The one from the nasally voiced girl at my back. I blink several times, almost as if I’m trying to see if I believe what they’re saying is true when you can’t see words to begin with.

“How can it with a name like Sweet Cheeks?”

“Sweet Cheeks. Ugh. What a tacky name. Makes me think of . . . of unsavory things.” Disgust laces her nasal drawl and I sit in disbelief. In anger. In
I don’t know what
because a part of me wants to shove my chair back, turn around so they can see my face, see who I am, and let them know exactly what I think of
them
.

But the other part of me slinks lower in my chair. I
want
to hear more about what is being said behind my back, yet
don’t
want to hear any of it at all. The whole situation seems contrived. Like there’s a hidden camera somewhere filming my reaction and the joke is on me.

“Well, she seems to like it,” the higher-pitched, squeaky-voiced one says. I assume she means the lady across from me currently taking a huge bite of chocolate heaven.

Nasal
tsks
. “At the monthly luncheon the other day, Mrs. Layton told the ladies that her cupcakes were dry and crumbly and . . . and unoriginal. She explained she’d tasted them before the whole . . .
situation
.” She lowers her voice on the last word as if she’s talking about some huge scandal. “You know . . .
poor Mitch
. That
Saylor
put him through so much.”

Dumbfounded, I subtly shake my head and try to wrap my mind around the coincidence of this happening—me sitting where I am to hear this conversation.

This has to be a joke
. A trick by Ryder to get me to go to the wedding because I feel like these two women have taken a page right out of his playbook.

Is that why I’m sitting here cowering in disbelief instead of standing up and telling them to go to hell?

I hate that I don’t know the answer.

“He’s definitely better off without her.” Squeaky sighs out loud and I swear I can hear her eyes rolling with the sound.

“
Right
? They never fit together in the first place. The funny thing is people like her would kill to live the life Mitch could have provided.”

People like her
? My blood boils and body vibrates at the insult that I wear proudly like a badge. I don’t want to be anything like them if this is the kind of person they expected me to be.

“So stupid on her part. Something has to be wrong with her. I mean, she’ll never get a chance again at a catch like him.”

“That’s the truth. Could you imagine how embarrassing that was for Mitch? And for his family to be rejected by
trash
? Good riddance.” Nasal draws the last word out.

My fist clenches on the pen in my hand. Cupcake girl across the aisle is oblivious of the decimation of my character and criticism of the crumbs she’s licking from the tips of her fingers.

“Not to mention the amount of money in deposits his family probably lost on the vendors because, you know, she didn’t care. She was originally from
the valley
so you know her family wasn’t paying for it.”

A snort that doesn’t fit their upper crust, snooty tones. “Most definitely not.”

“Good thing karma’s kicking her in the ass for it.”

And I’ve got to give it to Nasal because she just gave me whiplash with that comment.

“Wait! What do you mean by karma? Are you holding out on me, Tish?” Squeaky asks, now giving Nasal a name that is familiar but that I can’t quite put a face to.

“Not really. Just chatter I heard from the ladies at The Club. I guess Saylor started her bakery with the understanding that Mrs. Layton was going to encourage her friends to hire her to cater the desserts at their never-ending events.” I can all but see their lips forming into smug smiles.

Seriously? That’s the bullshit Uptight Ursula is telling people?

“Yeah, but since she left him and called off the wedding—”

“Thank goodness,” Squeaky interrupts.

“Totally. Think of the bullet he dodged with that one. Marrying someone that’s not one of us? What was he thinking? But back to my story. I guess since the breakup, rumor from one of her suppliers whose dad knows one of Mrs. Layton’s house staff, is that business has slowed down considerably. Like making-no-profit slow.”

“Oh, poor thing.” Her laugh is pompous as I blink rapidly trying to figure out where the hell they’re getting this shit.
I am the supplier
. Me and my weekly runs to Costco. “Go back to how the other half lives, sweetheart.”

“God, yes. Leave the upper class alone, little girl.”

“No matter, I’m sure once Momma Layton is done badmouthing her, she’ll have to shut her doors.”

“Good riddance.”

“Agreed. You ready?”

“Of course. Saks Fifth Avenue is calling my name.”

Their voices fade off as they leave and I sit where I am. Stunned. Deflated. Furious.

That conversation was not a plant. Ryder would never go that far. I’d rather be wrong. Rather think that vapid, shortsighted people like them don’t exist in the world.

But it wasn’t.

They were real and they exist.

My hands tremble. Heated tears burn in my eyes because I’m pissed at myself for not telling them both to go to hell. For not standing up for myself and making a huge scene to make them feel like the shallow assholes they are. The problem is I’m so upset—so flustered—that even if I had turned around and said something, I know it would have come out a jumbled mess and made me look like the fool they were saying I am. Disgrace burns bright and it’s aimed one hundred percent at me for failing to find a backbone.

Their insipid comments repeat in my head.
Their
suppositions.
Their
judgments.
Their
everything.

So I do the only thing I can–my temper on fire, my mind dazed by its smoke. I dig in my purse until I find my phone. My fingers hit the wrong button several times as I fumble for the number. The one I recently entered in my contacts but swore I’d never use.

The phone rings. My body vibrates with a shame I shouldn’t feel, with an anger I own wholeheartedly, and with the notion that I was the naïve one thinking Ryder’s assumptions were wrong.

“Ships Ahoy?” He sounds as surprised to be receiving my phone call as I am in making it.

“I need your help, Hayes. Offer accepted.”

W
hat am I doing?

Dread over my decision filled me on the plane. The memory of Hayes’s words about my temper and the situations it gets me in taunted me. So I forced myself to sleep. To remember the catty words of the women at Starbucks. To hold on to the notion that I’m going to save my business. My passion.
My dignity.

The one Ryder helped me fund.

Is this really worth it?

Doubt increased with each step through the airport on the way to the baggage claim. Horrible scenarios played out in my mind. Ones with me losing the nerve to attend the outdoor ceremony, turning to flee in the moments before Rebound Sarah walks down the aisle, and running smack dab into Mitch. Like literally body against body so we both fall backward, me landing on top of him, my dress over my head, Spanx-covered ass in plain view for all the guests to see. Or of me walking into the reception, tripping and falling head first into the cake. All the guests turning to see me stand up, face covered in icing.

The irony, that I’d be covered in frosting—Mitch’s worst nightmare. But at least I’d be unrecognizable.

What if Hayes doesn’t show?

That’s my thought as the tropical air hits my face, and I take in everything around me.

The island is absolutely beautiful. The beaches are picturesque. Its main street colorful and full of sleepy island life as we drive through it.

I repeat the promises I made to myself when I stepped foot onto the plane at the crack of dawn this morning: I’m here to save my business and in the process put to rest the two men I’ve loved in my life.

Because saving my business is first and foremost. Proving to the Laytons and their friends that I’m confident and happy when I’m certain they assume the exact opposite.

And that leads me to my next promise to myself. To use the time here to rid myself of any lingering doubts I may have in regards to Mitch. To reaffirm that I made the right decision walking away and feel nothing for him other than complete indifference.