by Bromberg, K
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.”
Saylor
What 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.
That and the need to prove to his shallow, smug guests that I don’t need them or their lifestyle and am doing perfectly fine on my own.
Of course that leads me to my last resolution: Hayes Whitley. And every single damn thing about him. I told myself I needed to let go of what happened ten years ago. Forgive him, although I’m not sure what to do with the hurt I’ve harbored within. And while it might be trickier than forgiveness, I also need to realize that I don’t need answers as to why he left. What’s more important is to focus on the fact that he’s taking a huge chunk of time out of his personal schedule to be here for me. To help me prove a point and redeem a few of the things I lost when I left Mitch—most notably a chance for my business to succeed.
I have a feeling there are a few other things Hayes is going to show me too. He always did have that knack. To bring things out of me that I never knew I had in me: to look at the world from a different light, to challenge me in one way or another, to make me see a situation differently. Even as a teenager I recognized that.
Hand in hand with that is the notion that I’m heading into this weekend knowing I’m not going to walk away unscathed when it comes to Hayes. It’s impossible not to.
The question is what exactly the damage will be. Will it be to my heart, to the memory I had of us, or to my ego?
I have a feeling it might be all three.
It’ll be pretty hard to protect myself when it’s him doing the damage. Again.
So I focus on the scenery. On the little boys with dirt-smeared faces playing soccer in the alley. On the lady selling her handmade bracelets on the corner. On the cobblestone streets lined with wandering tourists eating shaved ice, or the couples walking hand in hand sharing a kiss.
The scenery changes. The trees still lush, the views amazingly spectacular, but the coast with its hypnotizing water comes back into view and stretches endlessly. We turn onto a drive with its lavishly landscaped grounds. Palm trees and vibrant flowers rustle in the ocean breeze.
The cab slows when it pulls up in front of the hotel’s entrance, and for one quiet second, I forget why I’m here. A small thrill of excitement tickles the base of my spine as I exit the car. My head swivels from side to side when I take in the grandeur of the hotel and smile at the sound of accented voices while the bellhop takes my luggage from the trunk.
So this is how the other half lives, huh? Well, this girl from the valley is going to soak up every ounce of it while I’m here.
I can almost picture myself relaxing—a drink in my hand, my feet in the sand, the sun on my skin—as I walk into the lobby. It’s even prettier than the brochures and online pictures portrayed. But when the cool rush of air-conditioned air hits my face, it also brings me back to reality. Either the air or the huge sign on an easel with elaborate calligraphy that says, Welcome Layton and Taylor wedding guests. Because the sight of that sign hits me full force as to what I’m about to do.
My stomach churns instantly. I’m here to attend Mitch’s new wedding. Not mine. In the place I’d dreamed of getting married.
My bravado wanes on my walk toward the registration counter. To calm my sudden bout of nerves, I take in the marble floors beneath me and lush plants around me. I keep my eyes straight ahead, focused on the nice lady with the gentle smile welcoming me to the hotel, because I just realized that it’s quite possible I could run into Mitch, his parents, or any of my supposed friends with each corner I turn in this hotel.
The funny thing is, I was prepared for that. Told myself it was going to be easy to do. But words are often easy to speak until reality slaps you in the face.
And oh how they are hitting me, now.
“I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Seven Stars Resort, Miss Taylor. I look forward to making your wedding a memorable one. What can—?”
“I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.” One Rebound Sarah Taylor to be exact. “I’m not getting married. Just a wedding guest here to check in.”
Her eyes widen. “I’m so sorry. I thought . . . You look like—oh, my apologies. The wedding coordinator showed me a picture of Miss Taylor earlier, so I could greet her if she came to the front desk. And you look so similar. You could be sisters. I’m so sorry, I—”
“It’s okay.” I force a smile at the irony of the entire situation. More importantly, I was right in my assumption that just like everything else, Sarah looks like me too. I shouldn’t be surprised. But still . . . “Saylor Rodgers checking in, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. I do apologize for my error. I’d like to welcome you to the Seven Stars Resort and thank you for choosing to stay with us, Ms. Rodgers. Let’s see . . . we have you . . . Oh, we have you in the Copa Villa. Such a beautiful place.” Her fingers click over the keyboard as my brow furrows at why the name of the villa sounds so familiar. “And it seems your travel companion, a Mr.—oh—Hayes Whitley,” she says, eyes widening when she recognizes the name, “has already checked in so I’ll have Rico show you the way to your villa.”
The news that Hayes is here surprises me, considering his last text to me had said he’d arrive tomorrow, due to a scheduled meeting. I had welcomed the idea of having a day to myself to build up the courage to actually go through with this.
Little too late to back out now.
With a bit more resolve, I hold my head high and follow Rico through the lobby to outside. I’m in awe of the grounds as we walk. The brochures I’d poured over when planning come to life before me in a bittersweet yet surreal way. The sun is high in the sky as we meander down a path bordering the white sand of the beach toward the far end of the resort’s property. When the path ends, we are at a rather large bungalow, trellised with gre
enery and positioned for privacy.
Oh my God. The Copa Villa. The most private and expensive of all of the villas in the resort. I remember it now. Mrs. Layton’s insistence that this was where Mitch and I should spend our first night together as a married couple. How when I looked at the ridiculous room rate, I laughed out loud. And when the humor subsided, I’d been too embarrassed to tell her there was no way I could afford it. How I lied about booking an Internet deal for the vacation package to justify why I said that no upgrades were allowed. And of course she’d seen right through the lie. Knew I couldn’t afford anything else on my already maxed-out credit card and then insisted she personally foot the bill.
I shake my head thinking of that argument. How it should have been a warning sign to me how controlling she could be. But I didn’t back down. No. I stood my ground and held firm to my dignity. It was so very important to pay for some part of my wedding instead of letting the Laytons happily foot every cost.
It was the only time in my years with Mitch that I saw her back down.
And so much irony now with the fact this is where I’m staying with Hayes.
Hayes.
I’m so furious at him. How dare he pay such a ridiculous amount to stay here this weekend? He’s already doing enough as it is.
Maybe it’s a security thing. He needs to be away from other guests for his safety? Perhaps. I try to talk myself into the notion so that when I walk into the villa and see him, I’m not grumpy right off the bat over this.
Then the thought creeps in my mind and I don’t even bother biting back the chuckle that falls from my mouth. Rico looks back at me, and I just shake my head that I’m okay. I wonder what Squeaky, Nasal, and Mrs. Layton will think if they find out where I’m staying.
And then I wonder if there is nothing but the best for her son, where exactly are Mitch and Sarah staying on their wedding night if we’re staying in the villa?
Guess this girl from the valley gets the last laugh after all.
Rico slows and hands me the keycard with a promise my luggage will be delivered shortly, smiles, wishes me a good day, and then leaves me alone with a whole new set of nerves for a completely different reason.