by K. Bromberg
“Friends? Is that what you want from me?” I tighten my arms across my chest, not to ward off the chill this time, but rather to protect my heart because there’s something about Hayes Whitley that just gets to me. To the parts I want to guard and yet know he can weasel his way into without really trying.
And that’s why I need to keep my temper front and center. Use my anger as a shield against this charming man, who is that perfect mix of rugged and pretty-boy handsome. The man who knows from experience exactly what buttons to push.
Because he screams trouble from a mile away in every sense of the word, especially to my heart, because he’ll never stay. Because he’s Hayes.
“Remember that night on Todd Schilling’s property?”
His change of topic gives me whiplash. I’m about to say which time, since there were so many nights we all hung out on his family’s stretch of land. Endless hours lost to the lot of us, acting like misspent youth when in reality we did nothing out of the ordinary. But I don’t need to ask which time he’s referring to because even with the many memories, I know.
How could I not?
“Yes.” My voice is quiet. Eyes inquisitive.
“Do you remember what I said after?”
I nod.
I protect those I love.
The emotions of that night are so powerful, the feeling of security he provided me with, even more so.
And I hate that with that single memory, that off-the-cuff phrase, he’s softened me. Made me remember those words and that promise while trying to push him away.
“I meant what I said then, and I mean it now. I did some shitty things to you and don’t deserve your forgiveness even though I’ve asked for it, but in the end, Saylor, you’re part of my family. Ryder’s part of my family. I can’t think of a memory before my twenties that the two of you weren’t a part of in some way or another. The Laytons have done more than their fair share of crap to you whether intentional or not. And I’d like nothing more than to help you out if you need it. Okay?”
The combustive fuel to my temper just burned out from the unrelenting look in his eyes and the honesty in his words. My pride wars against the emotions of my past. Against wanting to forgive and needing to move on.
On not wanting to still have feelings for this man—to hold on to the hurt he caused when he left, and remind me why I shouldn’t feel anything now. But how can I when he says something like that?
“Thank you. I appreciate it. It’s not necessary though. It’s probably best to leave Mitch in my past and try to make a new and different future.”
Like what I did after you.
Hayes makes the connection between my words and what my eyes are saying. He knows he doesn’t fit in this world of common people and State Street anymore.
“The next time I see you, Saylor, I’m going to earn back the chance to be your friend.” The muscle in his jaw pulses. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip.
But friends can break your heart too.
“Goodbye, Hayes. It was really good to see you again.”
I battle against every single part of me that wants to wait and see what he says next, to believe his declaration, but at the end of the day, all I have left is my pride. The only thing I can do is trudge forward. And with that in mind, I offer a slight smile and turn my back on the man I used to think held my future.
Because I need to return to my reality.
The sweet smell of the bakery and the comforting ring of the bell greet me when I pull the door open. DeeDee meets me with a wide grin and eyes still trained over my shoulder where Hayes is probably getting into his car. And I don’t want her million questions. Don’t want to feel like I just broke up with Hayes again when we never really broke up in the first place.
He left.
And I need to remember that. Need to not be blinded by the feelings he stirred up when I’m feeling vulnerable about Mitch’s wedding. I’m still recreating my life, and to some extent . . . me.
“So, uh, why do I sense that Hayes Whitley was more than just a childhood friend like you told me before?” DeeDee asks at my back as I wash my hands in the sink, attempting to refocus. However, the pounding of my heart tells me it’s going to take a few minutes.
I shrug in response and grab a towel to dry my hands on. “We dated for a while. Then he left for Los Angeles and I never heard from him again.” Why is that so hard to admit? When I turn around her eyes are wide, mouth opening and closing like she wants to ask so much more but isn’t sure how much she should pry into her boss’s past. Wise girl.
“That explains why there was so much sexual tension between you two. It was so thick you could cut it with a knife.”
“Oh Dee.” I laugh. Harder than is probably warranted but I don’t know where she gets these things from. “That’s funny. He’s definitely not suffering in the sex appeal department, but I think you need to step back from your romance novel addiction. Life is not like your books. Sexual tension can’t be cut. People don’t meet lifelong soul mates in grade school. And I assure you, the heroine doesn’t have an orgasm every single time she has sex with the hero. Okay?”
“But the hero sometimes pays for his cupcakes even though he’s told they’re on the house and then leaves a mysterious plane ticket on the counter before telling the assistant to wait and give this to her boss after he drives away.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out what she’s talking about until she slowly pulls a dark blue envelope from behind her back and holds it out to me.
“I think he still likes you, Saylor.”
“No. He doesn’t.” I protect those I love. Why do his words choose that moment to return to my mind? “I think you are both off your rockers.” I sigh as I turn the envelope over in my hand, disbelief owning my thoughts and the feeling of being handled fueling my temper.
I take a deep breath, prepare to be irritated, and open the envelope. Inside is a first-class ticket on American Airlines to Turks and Caicos. A paid-in-full reservation for the Seven Stars Resort and Spa under my name.
My pulse thunders in my ears. My hands shake. Tears sting the back of my throat. So many emotions—disbelief, anger, gratitude, irritation, everything—reverberate within me at the sight of these reservations and the amount Hayes must have paid in upgrades.
I move aside the hotel confirmation to find a yellow Post-It note in penmanship I know all too well.
Just in case you want to escape to paradise with me for a few days. It’s not to prove a point to them, but to prove one to you. You’re better than them, Ships. I’d love to help you believe it.
- Hayes
I stare at the note for a few moments and try to identify how I feel. I am so very grateful that Hayes is willing to take time out from his demanding schedule, if I wanted him to, and feel flattered he thinks so highly of me even after the past few days.
And I wonder if he remembers anything about me. In particular, how I hate to have my hand forced at anything. And if it is forced, how I’ll do the exact opposite to prove the point that I won’t be persuaded.
Kind of like how I’m feeling right now.
I look to the ticket in my hands. Know I’m not going to go. Can’t. The past is better left in the past. The bakery will survive somehow without it. So I try to figure out how to get his money refunded. How to thank him but at the same time pass on his offer.
And yet I can’t deny the feelings these little pieces of paper have filled me with: warmth that he’d even think to do this for me, disbelief that he has so much faith in me after how I’ve treated him this week, and peace by giving me the opportunity to make a choice over what to do.
I lift my eyes to see DeeDee waiting patiently and watching my reaction. Her smile tentative, her hope that I opt for the romantic happily ever after her novels provide visible in her eyes.
But we all know books are fiction.
The romance in novels is a crock of shit.
Sometimes the hero still leaves in th
e end.
And the heroine is once again left to pick up the pieces.
Hands.
His hands are everywhere when I don’t want them to be. Over my mouth. On my chest.
The bite of gravel in my back. The press of his knees between my thighs. His excited laugh as I try to jerk my head free. So I can yell. So I can bite.
The taste of fear. It fills my mouth. Owns my senses.
The sound of crickets. They seem so loud. Screaming at him to stop since I can’t.
The wisp of grass against my legs. Cold. Bitter. Deceptive. Hiding the jagged rocks beneath it that are biting into my skin.
Just like him.
The scent of beer. On his breath. Seeping into the ground beside me from where I knocked it over in my struggle.
The distinct sound of the strap on my new sundress tearing. I saved up for weeks to buy it. And now it’s broken.
I’m not sure why I focus on that. On the rip of fabric.
Because it’s easier than thinking of what comes next.
Oh. God.
The strength in his hands. Holding me down. Preventing my escape.
I struggle. I kick. I fight. But a few things seem so vivid in my mind. The one that’s closing down. That doesn’t want to process what might happen next. Can’t.
“Saylor? Saylor?” The shouts of my name. Hayes. It’s Hayes.
I’m over here. Please. Please find me.
The sensation of warmth as my tears leak out and slide from the corners of my eyes down to my earlobes.
Cool night air on my belly from where he’s pulled up my dress.
A roar of sound. I think. I don’t know. I can’t process anything. But I hear it again and then his weight is gone. Missing.
I’m empty. Hollow.
I scramble up. Crawl—rocks scraping against my bare knees—to escape as quick as I can.
There’s a crunch.
A lot of shouting.
The oomph of an exhale as a fist hits a stomach.
An “I’m going to kill you” through gritted teeth.
The smack of knuckles on flesh.
“Go get help, Ryder. GO now.”
Another crunch of bone against bone.
My ears ring. My body is cold. I can’t stop shaking. Or crying. Or rocking back and forth with my hands holding my knees against my chest.
So I can disappear. From here. In my mind.
So I can pretend. Forget.
“Saylor. Saylor.”
I flinch as hands touch me. Try to fight against them.
“It’s me.”
I push him away.
“It’s me.”
My struggle ceases.
Safe hands run over my arms and back and cheeks. Direct my face up to meet his eyes looking right at me. Blood on his knuckles. A red mark on his cheek. A rivulet of sweat running down his temple.
Concern. Fear. Fury. Uncertainty. Disbelief. They’re all in his eyes, telling me he’s just as freaked out as I am.
But his voice is calm and comforting.
“I’m here, Say. Right here.”
His hands urge me to move. Lift me off the ground and position me to sit on his lap. Arms slide around me. Pull me into his chest. Against him.
My nose into his neck. His scent breaks through the fear. It smells like safety.
His warmth on my skin. My insides still cold.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”
He holds me in the dark. One hand smoothing my hair down. The other running up and down my spine. The heat of his breath on my head. The vibration in his chest as he speaks. The tremble of his hand as he continues to soothe.
With words. And by touch.
Sirens in the distance.
I’m safe now. In Hayes’s arms.
“You’re safe, Saylor. Always. I’ve got you. I protect those I love.”
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.