by K. Bromberg
The thought is ludicrous, and yet it strikes me to the core. Love and obligation are two different things, Saylor. Not one and the same.
“Did I lose you?” Hayes’s voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts.
I shake my head, clear my mind. “I’m sorry. Just thinking about them. What were you saying?”
His smile is cautiously sympathetic while his eyes search mine to make sure I’m okay. “All I said was I can understand your need to actively chase your dreams.”
“No, I don’t think you can. It’s maddening.” It’s an unfair statement to make to him and yet I appreciate the fact he doesn’t argue it. “They were so young and had so much life left to live, and yet I feel like they partly gave up on their dreams and hopes when they married, and I don’t want to do that. Be that. Regret the chances I never took.” I recall my mom’s repeated comments about what she could have done—her dream career as a dancer on Broadway and how marriage and kids derailed that. A good derailment but a jump off the tracks nonetheless. I think of my dad and the baseball draft he missed out on because he thought the best thing to do for his family would be to be home and work a steady nine-to-five.
Missed opportunities. Dreams put on hold. Completely honorable decisions on their part. Ones that I benefitted from. A life still great by any standards lived in their perfect marriage but the theme of what-if always a constant undertone.
“Saylor?”
“What?” When I look up from where I’m playing with the umbrella garnish from my fruity rum punch, I meet his eyes and realize he’s asked me yet another question. I was too engrossed in thoughts of my parents—of the guilt I continually feel over loving them to death but wanting to be nothing like them—to have heard him.
It strikes me how weird this is to be talking about this now. It’s been nearly seven years and yet it feels good to talk to someone who knew them like I did.
“I asked if your parents’ unrealized plans had anything to do with you not marrying Mitch.”
I stare at him long and hard, my gaze impenetrable, my thoughts a whirlwind, and chew the inside of my cheek. But I don’t need to think at all because I know the answer. It’s clear as day now that I’ve had this time away from him.
“Yes.” My voice is quiet, eyes fixated on my drink and the condensation slowly sliding down the side of the glass. I question myself, hate that I almost feel like I’m cheating on Mitch by talking about him to Hayes, but then realize how absolutely absurd that is considering the situation. And I have to hand it to Hayes; he is patient. He sits and waits for me to find the words to express the conflicted emotions I’m certain blanket my face. “Mitch treated me well. I just think that his idea of what a wife should be and mine are two completely different things.”
“I can assume here,” he says as he lifts the bottle of Red Stripe to his lips, “but I’d prefer if you’d explain.”
“Well, for one thing, he hated the bakery. Even before I rented the actual space and applied for my business license, I was running it as a side business out of our house. It drove him crazy. And not just the mess of it, but more the mess on me. He disliked that I was so lost in it that I didn’t care if I had frosting in my hair or if my clothes were smeared with piping. And it wasn’t that I didn’t care but rather I was just so absorbed in whatever I was creating that I didn’t notice the mess. God, he loathed the days I forgot to put on makeup because I had a harebrained idea for a new flavor and had to go do it right then before I forgot it.”
“You always were that way. Spontaneous. Needing to see for yourself. I used to love and admire that about you.”
I preen under his simple praise. Feel stupid that I do but can’t help it considering I’m so used to the opposite opinion.
“Yeah well, not everyone does.” I laugh. “I guess I wasn’t proper wife material.”
“That’s the biggest bunch of bullshit, and if you believe it for a single second, I’m going to kick Ryder’s ass for letting you.” His eyebrows are lifted, lips pursed, expression unforgiving. And I’ve seen them throw punches at each other so I have no doubt he would.
This time around, Hayes definitely has the advantage.
My laugh floats out and draws the attention of the bartender who flashes a smile my way—eyes roaming over Hayes momentarily—before turning back to her customer. “When it came down to it, our marriage would have worked. I would have made it work,” I say with more conviction than I feel. Resentment I never realized I harbored comes out of nowhere.
Hayes snorts and I’m not sure how to read the sound since his eyes are focused on people on the golf course beyond.
“You would have made it work so long as you sacrificed yourself. That sounds like a stellar marriage. One made to last.”
I stare at him, his sarcasm loud and clear, wanting him to meet my eyes and not meet them all at the same time. I need to show him I’m not that woman. Was I back then? Maybe that’s another reason I stayed with Mitch for so long.
“It doesn’t matter now, really. That or any of the other reasons because we’re not together.”
“Hmpf.”
“Hmpf? What does that mean?” I straighten my spine, suddenly defensive over the feeling that I’m being judged. And who is he to judge when he wasn’t the one here for me after my parents died?
“It could mean a lot of things,” he murmurs as he tips the bottle up to his lips and signals for another one. We’re interrupted momentarily when another guest comes up and asks for his autograph. He handles the woman’s nervous chattering like a pro before turning back to me. His eyes are unrelenting as they stare into mine, gauging how candid he wants his next comment to be. He starts to say something and then shakes his head and closes his mouth before turning back to the view beyond.
“Just say it, Hayes. It’s not like you hold back.”
“The way I see it from the outside is that he was the problem in your relationship, Saylor, not you, as you seem to continually assume. Having a passion like your baking is something that just happens. It’s not controllable. It’s a huge part of you that makes you happy. Calms you. Any person who tells you to suppress it for their own benefit is trying to stifle you. Mold you. Make you someone different than you are. Never let someone steal your passion. If you do, then you’ll resent them. And resentment is the death of any relationship.”
For the umpteenth time since he’s walked back into my life, I just sit and stare at Hayes. Wonder how he’s in my head and knows exactly how I’m feeling. First he connects the dots with my parents. How I don’t want to miss chances like they did. And now this. Understanding the numerous nights I’d sit stewing at home because Mitch made a big fuss about me spending too much time at the bakery. How I’d be miserable, sitting idly by while he perused the Wall Street Journal or New York Times. It’s like he wanted me to want to be with him more for his own ego’s sake, to know I chose him over my work, and not because he actually wanted to spend time with me.
Hearing Hayes say it only reinforces that it was right to end things with Mitch.
“Thank you.” My voice is soft, relieved that someone understands why I felt how I felt.
“There’s no need to thank me.” He shrugs as he sets his bottle down and stands up from his barstool. “Truth is truth, and I’m sorry you had to experience that particular truth. C’mon, I need to do something.”
I look down to the hand he holds out to me and then back up to the brown of his eyes. “Keep this up, Whitley, and I just might start to like you again.”
“You never stopped liking me.” The smile he flashes—one full of arrogance, amusement, and adoration—causes the parts that he’s awakened in me, the ones that wanted to be kissed, to roar back to life.
It’s just the fresh air and different perspective, Saylor. Get a grip.
And so I do just that—get a grip—but this time it’s by taking the hand he offers and following him without asking where we’re going. We walk through the lush grounds and laugh at sil
ly memories I can’t even believe he remembers from our youth. We talk about Ryder and why he hasn’t settled down yet. About the project we rehearsed this morning. About my favorite flavor of cupcakes.
And in all our wandering, I become distracted by both the scenery and by him with his board short-clad hips and his tanned, chiseled chest. Why would I want to pay attention to anything else? So I let him walk in front of me for a while as I happily meander behind, not having a clue where he’s leading me.
I think about my parents. About their love. About how they only wanted the best for me. They would have loved my bakery. And I know deep down that despite the heartache I had walking away from Mitch, my mother may have turned over in her grave if I had married him here at her dream destination.
Because she would have known—always did—what was best for me even when I couldn’t see it myself. Youthfulness often has a way of blinding you to truths.
And Mitch wasn’t what was best for me.
But Hayes on the other hand . . . she always did have a soft spot for him. I think she’d be smiling, knowing I’m presently enjoying her idea of paradise with him. That we’re burying the past so we can be friends. And that despite the heartbreak he caused me, she was right: he is the good guy she thought he was because he’s here trying to help me save face.
I’m distracted from my thoughts when a resort employee walks out of a fork in the path in front of us. She momentarily meets Hayes’s gaze, nods her head at him before smiling at me, and then makes her way down the path beyond us.
“So I have a confession,” he says solemnly, causing my feet to falter and my eyes to wander to anywhere but on him.
“Nothing good ever comes from those opening words.” I’m not sure why I’m already nervous about this. Why the single phrase has my pulse accelerating.
He chuckles but doesn’t respond before walking a few feet, looking back to me, and then disappearing the same way the resort worker had just come from. I follow him into this little alcove carved out of the thick, tropical foliage. Its fronds shade us from the sun overhead and partially obscure us from any other guests exploring like we were. “Sit.”
I narrow my eyes but oblige him after he sits down first. And I’m so fixated on the discord humming within me that I don’t notice the box on the bench until he picks it up. And when I do, my eyes immediately home in on the pink pastry packaging.
“Hayes?”
He doesn’t respond but rather opens the box so I can see a dozen lavishly decorated cupcakes inside. I’m so confused. What do cupcakes have to do with his confession?
“Just humor me, okay?” His dimples deepen with his smile.
“Sure.” I rub my hands on my thighs and wait.
“When I arrived the other day before you, I thought I’d be nice and go buy some cupcakes, have them in the villa as a little treat for when you arrived. Looking back, the idea was stupid since you are usually up to your elbows in cupcake batter and frosting, so why would you want more? But my God, Ships, they tasted like shit. Nothing like yours whatsoever.”
My laugh rings out. He likes my cupcakes. My ego has definitely been boosted. “So that’s your confession? That the cupcakes are horrible?”
“In a sense.” He nods his head and looks back down to the box’s contents. “But you see, I know how long your anger can last, and I don’t want you to be angry with me anymore. You can hold a mean grudge, Saylor Rodgers, and so I bought you these.”
He holds the box out to me and now I’m even more confused. My chuckle reflects my mix of emotions. “Let me get this straight. You don’t want me to hold a grudge against you, so you bought me a box of cupcakes you think taste like crap?”
“Yep.” His smile broadens and body shifts so his knee is on the bench and shoulders face me.
“Okay.” I laugh the word out, befuddled but amused. “But I’m not holding a grudge against you. I told myself I was going to come here and wash the slate clean. The past is the past, and it’s over and done with.”
He mulls the words over, the look on his face says he’s skeptical whether he really believes me or not, then picks up a cupcake and hands it to me. What in the hell is going on here? “Hayes?”
“Just hold it because while I think they may taste like shit, I do think they’ll be perfect grudge-busters.”
“Grudge-busters? What? I’m so confused right now. What the hell is a grudge-buster?”
“It’s this.” I bite out a yelp as he picks a cupcake up and smacks his hands together with a dramatic flair. Bits of cupcake and frosting fly everywhere, like a confectionary explosion. There are crumbs stuck to his chest, all over his board shorts, in his hair, on his lips that are open and laughing, and understandably, smashed all over his hands.
Probably exactly what I look like at the end of a long day.
“Are you crazy?” I shriek but the words come out in a vomit of laughter. To see a man, who always looks so perfect no matter what time of day, look like the mischievous little boy from my childhood makes my heart swell.
“Your turn.” Despite his tongue darting out to lick some frosting off his smiling lips, his tone is dead serious. And of course I hesitate, unsure if he’s losing it but then again with that smile on his lips . . . I know he’s not.
“Why? Can you just tell me why you want me to smash a cupcake in my hand—shitty tasting or not?” My eyes are wide, but my hands are itching to try it. Lips fighting the smile I can’t seem to help when I’m around him.
“Because spontaneity is the best kind of adventure,” he repeats the mantra from the other night. “And because it’s a grudge-buster.” He shrugs as if he’s making perfect sense and hopefully to himself, he is.
I stare at him long and hard, realizing he set this all this up with the resort employee delivering them to the spot for us and then leaving when she saw us. And if he’s gone through this much trouble, I decide to go for it.
Within seconds, my hands are a mass of frosting and cake. The fallout from the force of my smash has resulted in an equal number of crumbs landing on Hayes as they have me. And while I may not be sure why I’ve just smashed a cupcake between my hands, I’m not going to lie when I say that it did feel pretty damn good. Cathartic.
“Should we do another one?” Hayes asks, as he looks down to where he’s trying to remove a large chunk of chocolate frosting from his chest and only manages to smear it further.
I could help you get that.
With my lips.
And my tongue.
Holy hell, the thoughts have me shifting to abate the sudden ache of want in my core.
When his hand stills mid motion, I glance up from where I’m staring at it on his chest to find he’s caught me watching. There’s a flash of something darker in his eyes mixed with a glimpse of desire. The words on my tongue suddenly feel like molasses.
I blink my eyes and try to refocus on what he asked me. Do I want to smash another one? Yes, for obvious reasons. And no, because he’s trying to distract me for some reason.
“No. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Why would I hold a grudge against you, Hayes?” My wits have been restored. So long as I keep my eyes on his. Off his body. And not on his lips.
“I lied to you, Ships.”
Now there’s a definitive way to distract me from thinking about his body.
“Okay.” I stretch the word out as I wrack my brain for what he’s referring to.
“When I walked into Sweet Cheeks that first day, yes, I was picking up the order for my mom, but I lied about that being the only reason.”
“Hayes.” His name is a warning I don’t want to have to give.
“Hear me out.” His chocolate-smeared palms are up in the defensive position. I glare. “I came in with every intention of telling you I had talked to Ryder and knew what had happened. But when I saw you . . . shit, Say, I fumbled. It’d been years since I’d seen you. And when I did, everything about what used to be us—our friends
hip, our love, our connection—rushed right back like it was yesterday. Then you assumed. And I saw how hurt you were. How much your pride had been fucked with by Mitch and the jerks you thought were your friends. I heard it in your voice. It killed me, Say. Made me think of how bad I’d hurt you before and knew I couldn’t hurt you again. And then after I heard you talk about Mitch, about why you walked away, I realized what you needed more than anything was honesty. It seems you’ve already faced enough on your own, and the least I could do was be honest too. So, yeah, I chickened out that first day I saw you. Thought if you told me on your own terms then I’d feel better about it, and only then would I do this if you asked.”
His words fade off and I’m not sure what to feel. I want to be mad at him. Want to feel embarrassed that he’s known all this time, and yet I can’t be. How lucky am I to have a friend willing to see how much I was hurting and not want to add to it?
“Sorry.” He speaks the word with such weight that I know the apology is for so much more than just not telling me.
“Thank you.” The two words are a whisper while the new cupcake in my hand taunts loudly to be smashed. On Hayes.
Hayes nods his head, our eyes still locked, but my thoughts are completely consumed with the idea.
“Hey,” I say, voice soft, lips curved in mischief. “No grudges.” He lifts his eyebrows as if he’s shocked I’ve forgiven him so easily, and then he gasps when I land the first confectionary blow. One beautifully decorated chocolate ganache cupcake is smashed on the exact location I’d thought about licking only moments before.
He’s silent as he looks down to where my hand is still pressed against him, chocolate frosting the only barrier between us. I grind it in, slowly slide it down his abs, and then lift my hand to bring a coated finger to my mouth. His eyes lift from the aftermath of my assault to watch me wrap my lips around my finger and suck the frosting off it.
A myriad of things flicker through his darkening irises. What I assume is hunger and desire. Need and want. The same feelings that are rioting through me. I slide my finger from my mouth and run my tongue over the chocolate still on my bottom lip. His jaw pulses. His eyes hold fast. Sexual tension sparks when it just can’t.