Sweet Cheeks (23 page)

How’s that working for you, Whitley?

Kind of hard to remain impartial when everywhere we go, assholes from the wedding have stared at her. She may not have noticed them—so busy with her eyes wide at the tropical scenery around us—but I sure as shit did. I saw the packed tables in the back corner of the karaoke bar—eyes glued, tongues wagging, noses turned up. But they did take notice of who she was with. Then the halt of conversation and turning of heads as we walked by the pool earlier today—the floppy hats being lifted so they could stare a little longer from behind their sunglasses and grimace over
that girl from the other side of town
as I heard one of them mutter. And of course then again, in the bar a while ago. The pairs of eyes looking over the edge of menus, ready to whisper the minute I turned my attention from them and back to her.

But the joke’s on them. I’m not fucking stupid and have played this game perfectly in her defense. Made sure I’m loud so it’s noticed that I’m here at the resort. Looked like an egotistical fucker throwing my name around, when typically, I use an alias to go incognito so I can enjoy my time off rather than be constantly wary of the sly pictures taken on cell phones or time interrupted when asked for autographs.

But this weekend is for Saylor. Not me. My way of easing my guilt from all those years ago. My need to make sure she’s okay because as tough as she is, I can still see the hurt she’s hiding behind her gutsy façade. It seems that fucker, Mitch, has put her through the wringer.

So yeah. I’ll throw my name around. Take my time eating our meals in the wide-open bar. Sit beside her poolside and sip some cocktails. Go to the hottest spots in town when I know the whole wedding party will be there just to make sure there is no mistaking we’re a couple.

If I’m famous, I might as well put it to good use in her favor.

Besides, I’ve got my publicist on the ready. She’s already issued statements to the press stating I’m taking a little R&R after wrapping the last film to hang out with an old childhood friend. I certainly haven’t felt the normal hairs on the back of my neck when I sense an intrusive lens aimed in my direction, which has been incredibly freeing.

Kissing Saylor in public was a stupid mistake on my part, but hell if I expected any of this—
the feelings, the connection, wanting to kiss her senseless
—to happen when I offered to bring her here in the first place.
But she was far too tempting not to taste.

I shake the thought from my head, certain that this little bubble around us in this all-inclusive resort will remain intact. And just as I know it will, I also know that our simple kiss won’t change the wedding party’s thoughts of her.

They’ll still judge her and thumb their snooty noses at her. And since she’s going to be judged, I’ll make sure they see the real her. The laughing, funny, spontaneous girl I used to know. The one whose friendship they’re missing due to their arrogance and exclusivity.

The irony? I’m realizing how much I missed out on it too.

Thank fuck I’m an actor, can play the part like nobody’s business, because I’ve just fooled both the audience watching across the green and, by the hurt in her eyes, Saylor herself. And maybe even myself.

They think I want her.

She thinks I don’t.

I know I want her.

I know I can’t.

N
ow I know why I’ve always compared every woman I’ve ever kissed to you.

I cream the butter and sugar together. Do it by hand and forgo the perfectly capable mixer sitting on the counter behind me because I need the physicality of it. The therapy it provides.

The comment repeats in my mind. Confounds me. If the kiss was for show, why did he make that comment? I’m so confused. And right alongside my confusion sits my sexual frustration.

The massage Hayes booked for me was meant to be relaxing. Meant to make me forget everything that was to come tonight with the rehearsal dinner. Kind of hard to do when each time the masseuse slid his hands over my skin, all I could think about was how I wanted Hayes’s hands on me instead.

Add an egg. Beat the mixture.
Is he as worked up over this as I am?
Crack another with one hand while I keep stirring with the other. Add that one in. Stir. A dash of vanilla. Stir.

Because since our kiss earlier, the only thing stronger than the desire owning my body, is the confusion ruling my heart.

The constant reminder to myself that the kiss was all for show.

For Mitch.

For his family.

For his friends.

Whatever combination of the three standing on the golf course while Hayes pulled me against him and kissed me.
Senseless
. Thoroughly. Handily.

It was all for show.

I repeat the phrase. Tell myself I can’t be hurt by it because I knew it was going to happen at some point. A simple kiss to convince the wedding party that Hayes and my relationship was legitimate.

At least we got it out of our systems. But it’s definitely not out of my system—not by a long shot—because that kiss was anything but simple. It was a no-holds-barred, steal-your-breath, make-you-want-without-regret kiss.

Hence the reason I’m still so damn emotional over it a few hours later.

Sift the flour with the baking powder. Check the oven to see if it’s at temperature yet.
Is he questioning himself now like I am? Wanting more yet not acting on it because he realizes it’s an all around bad idea?
Add a pinch of salt.
Or is this all a scene to act out in a comedic script to him?
Lift my eyes and stare at the view beyond but not really see it because I’m lost in thought. Lost over everything really when it comes to Hayes.

I kept thinking that if we kissed under the guise of it being for onlookers, it was going to help rid the ghost of us from my memory. But I was so very wrong. Now I feel like it’s awakened them rather than bury them for good.

Stir.

He’s an actor, Saylor. This is what he does for a living. Plays to the crowd.

Stir.

He was just playing the part. It was a kiss. A moment. And then he turned it off like a light switch the second you were out of sight of everyone else.
Just like he did when we ran lines.

Stir.

You’re reading too much into it, Saylor.
But if it was all an act, why did Hayes murmur those words against my lips? Why did he hesitate pulling away?

A part of me thinks it was more than show. Hopes it was. Doesn’t hope it was.
Jesus, I’m a mess
. And yet I was there. I sensed his hunger behind the kiss, felt the intent in his touch, and saw the desire in his eyes.

Pick up the rubber spatula. Scrape the batter down the sides of the bowl.

Ships,

Just in case you need to busy your hands in batter.

- Hayes

The note he’d left me on the counter catches my eye again over the edge of the bowl. The one I had found on top of a stack of ingredients, bowls, and utensils when I walked into the kitchen from my post-massage shower.

If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have known that when I’m confused I use baking as my therapy. Use the comfort it brings to help me work through my thoughts.

No. If he didn’t care, he would have acted more like Mitch: focus on him. On his needs. His wants. Without a thought to my need for a mental recess.

But he does care. The note. The ingredients. The cooking instruments. Ensuring the villa had cupcake trays and liners. Understanding I’m confused and need this to help me work through it. All of those things say he does.

Don’t they?

Check to see if the oven has hit temperature. Hands falter mid-stir.

I had to have misread him and his intentions. Had to have thought there was more to his touch than there really was, because afterward, he dismissed me without a second look. In fact he almost seemed irritated with me, like I did something wrong.

Ready to spoon the batter, I pick up the metal cupcake tray from the counter behind me and slam it down onto the granite top a little harder than necessary. The sound reverberates through the house but does nothing to abate my frustration.
This is so screwed
.

Place the cupcake liners in the tray. Count the rows. Placate my obsessive thoughts.

What if I’m wrong? What if Hayes wanted to kiss me? What if he shared in my curiosity and wanted to know if there was anything lingering between us so he took advantage of the moment?

And damn, what a moment it was.

But now I’m drowning in perplexity. In bewilderment. In the fear and desire of wanting him to kiss me again despite knowing that wanting more is only going to lead to getting hurt again. And in the confusion over how a single kiss from Hayes can wind me up tighter than a spring when not once in the six years with Mitch did he ever make me feel this way.

But Hayes pulled back. He erased the emotion from his face and walked away—
again
—as if I irritated him.

I spoon batter into the cups. A little more forcefully than I should. With each scoop my anger builds. My emotions wrenched open like a can opener.

Scoop
.

What? I’m not good enough for him anymore? Not posh enough? Not pretty enough on the Hollywood starlet scale of beauty?

Scoop
.

Well, screw you, Hayes Whitley. Screw you and your Academy Award and your walking shoes that you still seem to wear.

Scoop
.

Tears blur my vision. Rejection burns brighter than logic. Hurt resurfaces when I force myself to admit that I knew exactly what I was getting into when I arrived here.

Scoop
.

I should be mad at myself for not keeping a leash on my emotions. For not remembering how devastating Hayes can be on my heart. For letting the ladies in Starbucks and their catty comments fuel my temper so I screwed over my own sensibility and accepted Hayes’s offer to come here.

Scoop
.

Just call it off, Saylor. Tell Hayes we already made our point today in the clearing—that I’m deliriously happy with a much more successful man than Mitch—and then hop on a plane. Leave all of this tumult behind and keep what’s left of your heart
and dignity
intact.

Scoop
.

Get a grip, Say. You’re letting one kiss make you lose your ever-loving mind and jump to conclusions that are all supposition
.

I blame it all on him. From taking the trip down memory lane with the old Hayes I used to love and then switching gears and having new experiences with the mature Hayes who brought me here. The one who makes unexpected observations, makes me laugh until my stomach hurts, and who doesn’t care if he’s covered in cupcake splatter so long as I’m not mad at him.

The one who came here to try and help me gain some kind of redemption and hopefully save my store.

I brace my hands on the edge of the counter, hang my head, and remind myself why I’m here in the first place. To save the bakery and to restore my reputation.

Not for the more than enjoyable distraction of Hayes Whitley.

When I lift my head, the distraction himself is standing on the other side of the kitchen. Shirt off. Chest heaving. Running shorts on. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw muscle pulsing. Eyes locked on mine.

My breath catches. At the sheer beauty of him. At the force in his expression. At the raw emotions rioting through me just from the sight of him. At how every single part of me stands at attention when his hands fist at his sides and his muscles tense.

Hello, distraction.

I hate him and love him, want him and don’t want him.

He takes a step forward. Stops.

I remind myself to breathe. To say something to break the hold he has over me. To ignore the sudden ache in my lower belly and that slow burn of arousal that coats my skin in goosebumps.

“I went for a run.” His words are strained. Hoarse. And yet I’m not exactly sure why he’s telling me the obvious.

“I’m making cupcakes.”

He nods his head as if this is a normal, everyday conversation. But it’s far from it if the way my body is reacting to every single thing about him can be used as a barometer.