He’s lost it. Now he agrees with my haste-filled action of RSVPing and thinks I should actually follow through with it. “You forgot one thing. I don’t have balls.” I try to lighten the mood. Derail the topic.
“Hardy har har. C’mon, I’m being serious.”
I should have known my brother wouldn’t let this go. “So, what? You think that by me showing them I’m more confident, they’re going to somehow support the business? It’s not like baking cupcakes is solving the world hunger crisis or anything. That’s a huge stretch.”
“Possibly. Possibly not. But if you left the golden boy and are no worse for the wear and actually have the guts to show up at the wedding, you sure as hell know they’re all going to wonder what you know that they don’t.”
“For the record I still think you’re crazy, Ry, but thank God, I’m not looking at the world through their snob-colored glasses either.”
He flashes me the same cocky grin he has since childhood. “Just think of it this way: if they see you with this newfound confidence, they’ll think the bakery is rolling in the dough. Pun intended,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows as I roll my eyes. “Being the shallow assholes they are, they’ll sniff the proverbial money in the air and think they need to try out your new shop to see what has changed in you.”
We stare at each other across the table. His eyes search to see if I agree with what he’s saying. And I do see some merit in it. I remember the many times I sat at lunch with all of my then-friends and listened to them talk about so and so and how they must be doing well. The discussion would turn to maybe we should go see for ourselves.
I can’t even believe I’m entertaining the thought. It was stupid in the first place for me to return the RSVP. I truly had no intention of taking the plane ride and showing up. If I’m honest, I sent the card hoping to make Mitch panic that I might actually attend. My theory being if he wanted to be a jerk by sending it to me, then I was going to match his jerkiness and send it right back. I never expected anyone in my very small and immediate circle to know.
And now, because Ryder found out, this discussion is happening when I should be focusing on the cupcakes in front of me.
“Possibly,” I murmur, breaking his gaze and starting the next identical line of piping. I’m mad at him for making sense and annoyed with myself for even entertaining this conversation. I shake my head and hide my smarmy smile since I just figured out how to put an end to this whole discussion. “You forgot one more thing though, Ryder. I’d have to have a hot guy who’s madly in love with me. Isn’t that what my friends need to see in order for me to even remotely think I can pull this off? You’ve seen my dating life of late. Netflix and Nutella are about as exciting as I get.”
When I look up, I can’t read the intention in his hint of a smile, but something about it has me straightening up. Our eyes hold, his head nodding ever so subtly as he rubs his hands over his jaw line.
“I can think of a few options.”
“Don’t bother,” I huff. “It’s not worth having this conversation.” I bend back over, effectively dismissing the topic at hand.
But he doesn’t move. Just stands there and watches me. And I hate every second of it. But I don’t look up, don’t say a word.
Discussion is over.
3
Hayes
“Do you know how much I want you?” My hands are braced on either side of her. Her nipples are hard and pressed to my chest. The cool silk of the sheets slides over my ass as I grind between the heat of her thighs.
“Show me.” Tessa’s eyes flutter closed as her lips meet mine. My dick hardens. It’s impossible to ignore the memories of last night—her kiss, her moans, her nails—when this was real between us. Skin to skin. Without the merkin or the glycerin spray for sweat. Void of the heat of the lights or eyes of the crew watching us. Or her rather, because she’s definitely a visual orgasm.
It’s Saylor. She needs your help.
My next line falters on my lips. The words I know by heart escaping me as the text I received earlier distracts me once again. Tessa’s body stiffens beneath mine, her face twists in question, and I know there’s no way we can smooth over my missed line.
“Shit. Sorry.” I sit back on my haunches and go to scrub my hands over my face but stop myself before smearing the makeup artist’s hour-long job creating my two-day-old black eye and stitched-up cut on my cheek. Instead, I scrunch up my nose as I look down at Tessa. Beautiful, sexy, Tessa who is sneering at me behind her dark lashes and thick stage makeup. Pissed because I can’t get my shit straight today. My concentration is continually hijacked.
But it’s not like I don’t know my lines. I’m sure the director thinks I was out late partying and not studying the script for today’s fifteen-plus-hour marathon shoot. Just what I need—him to get pissy and do a million retakes until it’s perfected, which will result in one of Tessa’s well-publicized starlet tantrums.
The criticism I deserve. The tantrum I don’t.
The irony is Tessa knows exactly where I was. On top of her. Beneath her. In her. All night long.
And if she throws a tantrum then what happened between us last night will come out somehow. She runs at the mouth when angry. And that won’t bode well for me and trying to keep a low public profile. Because even though this is a closed set, someone will talk. Talk leads to tabloids. Tabloids to snooping. And in my current situation, snooping leads to disaster.
And as much as I’m taking the fall for all of the other shit going on—the tabloid accusations of cheating—I’d rather keep them to just that: accusations, instead of stated facts.
Besides I fucked up. The thing with Tessa wasn’t on the agenda. We were running our lines for today. This sex scene . . . and one thing led to another.
Not that I’m complaining because Tessa Gravestone equals spank-bank material for most men.
But when I look down at her where she lies on the bed, perfect tits uncovered and on display—because her theory of if she bought them, then people should admire them—I just sigh and shake my head. Another apology on my lips.
And as much as I’d like to convince myself it was the great sex with her last night and wanting to do it again right now has me forgetting my lines like a first year SAG card holder, it’s not.
It’s not the stress of keeping what happened with her under wraps or what’s going on in the tabloids with Jenna or anything else.
It’s fucking Ryder. I don’t talk to the guy for over eight months and then all of a sudden we talk twice in one week. But it wasn’t plans we made to meet up when I finally head home for the first time in forever that have me screwing up my lines. It was his damn text.
His simple request. The mention of the one person who both of us had an unspoken agreement never to bring up: Saylor.
And fuck if I’ll admit that just seeing her name is the reason my concentration has been shot to hell.
“Hayes?” It’s the director’s voice.
“Yeah?” I look up, my mind pulled immediately from long, tanned legs dangling from the dock, warm summer nights making out in the tree house we’d long since outgrown, and seeing my name on the back of my letterman jacket as she walked up the sidewalk to her front door.
Every person on the set is staring at me. Time is money. And I’m sitting here wasting it, thinking about way back when. Another life I escaped from but suddenly feel like I’m being sucked back into.
All because of a simple damn name.
“Sorry. I got distracted.”
Tessa puffs her chest out—pink nipples on display—thinking she’s the cause of my distraction. I fight the roll of my eyes. Bite back telling her she’s not that great if for nothing more than to knock down that ego of hers that grows bigger every day.
“Are you undistracted now?” the director asks. Chuckles filter through the room as the grips and cameramen assume it’s my dick distracting me. Understandably. I bet a few of theirs are flying half-mast too at the sight of Tessa.
She smiles smugly as I shift off her and back to my original blocking for the start of the scene. “Yeah. Let’s take it from the last mark. I’ll nail it this time.”
At least I earn some chuckles with that one.
The hours roll together. Take after take. Line after line. All on repeat until deemed perfect by the acclaimed director, Andy Westin. The main reason I begged, borrowed, and stole just to get the role. So I could get the monumental chance to work with him. Learn from him.
I throw everything into my character. Tell myself to block the noise out. Ignore it. The thought of her. And get through the first part of the day and its expedited filming schedule sped up for my own benefit.
When we break for lunch at four in the afternoon, I grab a quick bite at craft services and head back to my trailer for some peace and quiet.
My cell on the dinette greets me as I enter. The text lingering on my mind. The woman it pertains to even more so.
Wanting to catch a quick snooze during the ninety-minute break till next call, I lie down on the couch, feet on one armrest and my head on the other. I run the next scene through my head. The lines I know like the back of my hand. The ones I definitely can’t fuck up next go round.