Sweet Cheeks (43 page)

I turn it over and watch the sand slide through the glass. Hypnotized by the sight, my thoughts drift. To how easily time passes. To Hayes. To not wanting to waste any more of it when it comes to being with him. Life is too short. When the sand runs out, the completed grudge cupcakes are visible through the curve of the empty glass.

Stop wasting time, Saylor.

I laugh out loud as pieces click into place for me. The paparazzi. They’re using me to make money. To sell the image they want of me. Why can’t I use them for the exact same thing?

Inspired, I grab my set of perfectly decorated grudge cupcakes and I waltz out of the kitchen, through the front of the bakery, and out the glass front door for the first time since I came home from my trip.

The awaiting photographers scramble and stumble over each other when they see me striding out of the store like a woman on a mission.

“You want a statement?” I shout out as they fumble to slide their cameras over to video mode to record what I have to say. “I’ll give you a statement. You want to know how I feel about everything that’s going on? How it feels to be accused and vilified and lied about when no one has a clue what the truth is?”

I set the box of cupcakes down with a resounding thud on one of the tables I have out front for customers. I pause for dramatic effect to make sure I have their attention and give them time to get the best angle.

“I get angry. But I don’t make up more lies and spread them around to make me feel better and to get more attention. I don’t call reporters, lie to them about where to find more gossip, and drop hints that aren’t true. No. Because if I did, you’d know I’m not the story here. Not in the least. But I have more class than that. More couth. Instead I bake. I eat chocolate. And I get out my anger by doing this.”

I pick up a cupcake, flash the top—make sure the
One To Smash
is showing to the cameras—and then I smash it between my hands á la the grudge-match cupcake war I had with Hayes. The photographers startle as cupcake shrapnel flies everywhere.

The image of Hayes’s bare chest covered in cupcake crumbs fills my mind and how I wanted to lick them off of him. And the thought is ten times more appealing than the slew of paparazzi in front of me but it makes seeing them that much more bearable.

“I make grudge cupcakes. Where there’s one for me to get my chocolate fix.” I hold up the one that says
Oats To Sow
. Take a small bite. Then hold up the
One To Throw
cupcake as shutters click. “And this one’s to get my frustration and aggression out.” And this time when I smash it, I earn a chuckle from them.

“So you see? Nothing important is going on here that you can take a picture of to sell, other than the ones you just took of me making grudge cupcakes and smashing them. But if you do sell the photos, make sure they’re accompanied with some ridiculous headlines like,
‘Saylor Rodgers goes crazy on a cupcake-smashing spree because Hayes Whitley has left her for Medusa’s little sister.’
Because if you’re going to lie, why not go all out, right? So print what you will. Say what you want. I know the truth. Hayes knows the truth. Jenna most definitely knows the truth. That’s it. I’ll just be in here making more cupcakes. I might even send a few out to compensate for your time since I’m not giving you any camera-worthy breakdown moments to sell. Everyone here like chocolate? Good. Sit tight.”

With that, I lick a piece of frosting off my fingers, look to the box of remaining cupcakes, and decide to leave it on the table so they can take a closer look and maybe even take a picture or two. Perhaps that’s why I make sure to strategically position the box so the pair of cupcakes I want to be seen are front and center for the camera lens: One cupcake says
YES, it’s always been HIM
and its match says
NOT YOU
,
Golf Boy.

Yeah. Those cupcakes are keeping me warm, now. Asshole.

And with a smug smile on my face because I know Mitch will see it and understand my message, I turn my back to them without another word.

When I open the door to the bakery, I feel the best I have since I woke up in Hayes’s arms before the shit hit the fan.

And when I look up, Ryder is staring at me with wide eyes and a shocked smile, pride written all over his face. “
That
was brilliant, Say.”

I shrug. “If you can’t give them what
they
want, you might as well give them what
you
want.”

“Free publicity is never a bad thing.”

“Thanks, but I’ve had enough publicity for a lifetime the past few days.”

I move to the back, wash my hands, and feel a little more sure of myself now that I know facing the beast wasn’t as horrible as I thought. Of course I know the crowd outside is nothing compared to some of the other mob scenes I’ve seen surrounding Hayes when he leaves a club or a premiere or does anything, and yet it’s still better than expected.

Baby steps. One after another, right back to Hayes’s arms.

“For you.” Ryder’s voice startles me. I dry my hands on a towel and narrow my eyes at the package as he sets it down.

I carefully set down the box, but when I remove the top,
it is empty
.

All except for a red heart drawn on a piece of paper. The words written in the center bring tears to my eyes.

Sorry. I’m not giving this one back. Hayes.

Hey @SweetChks . . . Just giving you back all of the things I stole from you over the years . . . Whatever could I mean? #GrudgeCupcakes #10Days

Chocolate Chip Cookies

Kisses

Time

Your Heart

And if swooning were a real thing, a physical reaction, I’d be doing it right now. Because damn if something so simple doesn’t mean more to me than the expensive oven.

I read the post again, my heart bursting, and then when I look down at the thousands of comments that have been made on his posts to me today, I notice a shift. They started out being crappy. Negative about me. But by the last one, the comments started becoming more positive. A
Get the girl, Hayes
! Or
If someone makes you this dedicated, you must love her
.

I switch over to my phone to text Hayes, like I have after every gift has arrived, and type:
You can keep it as long as I can keep yours. Thank you for my gifts.

F
OUR DAYS LEFT

TWITTER

@HayesWhitOffcl

Get ready for my mad A-game @SweetChks. Do you have a Band-Aid? I scraped my knee falling for you. #10Days #GrudgeCupcake #Determined

I
watch the video on TMZ of Saylor again. Of her walking out of Sweet Cheeks looking so composed and innocent with those brilliantly creative cupcakes, giving her little speech, and then smashing them in her hands. Shocking the hell out of the paps. The subtle dig to Mitch the Prick that will definitely be noticed. She comes off as playful, confident, and unaffected by the cameras being pointed at her. Like the unbelievably cruel things that have upended her world the last week don’t matter at all.

She played
them
perfectly. And when she turns to head back inside, the angle of the video affords me a glimpse of the Saylor Rodgers smug smile that says she’s figured this game out. Goddamn sassy, gorgeous, and without a doubt going to be mine.

God, I fucking miss her.

We went ten years without speaking so why is my self-imposed moratorium of not talking to her for ten days killing me?

Because this time I know it matters. This time I’m not willing to walk away from her again or let her walk away from me. I’ve chased my dreams. Followed my passion. Been successful. But what does it mean if I don’t have her around at the end of every day?

To kiss hello.

To laugh with.

To dirty up a counter in flour with.

Scrubbing my hand through my hair, I review the agenda sent over for the interviews being held the day after tomorrow and check the list of things I need to do to pull off the surprises I’ve planned.

And then I hope like hell this has all been worth it. That not talking to her, not seeing her, not kissing her will only make her realize how damn lonely it is without me in her life.

Now back to researching cheesy pick-up lines to tweet.

If I’m making an ass out of myself, I damn well better be getting the girl in the end.