“Thanks. You too.” I clear my throat. Dart my eyes. Try to focus on getting through the next few moments without blurting out the questions I’ve held on to for years over why he left me. Tell myself to let it go. After all, I did try. I’d messaged and called, time and again without a response after he first left. If he’d wanted me to know the answers, he would have responded.
But he didn’t.
End of story.
When the silence stretches, my eyes are drawn back to him.
Everything about him.
How kind the years have been to him. The dark shirt and designer jeans that look worn but probably cost more than the new display case I’d love to buy. He’s still as ruggedly handsome as before, still has that mysterious edge to him that drew me in as a teenager, but there’s more character to his face now. More lines and angles—a maturity to his features—that make me wonder what those eyes have seen. His body is bigger, broader, more filled out compared to the teenager I once knew, and yet it’s his eyes that hold me rapt. They’re the same warm brown, same dark lashes, but the intensity in them is new. The way he looks at me—unrelenting and thoroughly—leaves any words I was hoping to speak faltering on my tongue.
“I talked to Ryder last week. He told me about the bakery, so I figured I’d come in and check it out when I got into town.”
I stare at him, my mind spinning as to why my brother would tell Hayes anything about me. Years ago, we’d had a fight after I’d learned he and Hayes talked occasionally. I was livid and felt betrayed by both of them. Hayes couldn’t pick up a phone and talk to me, but he could do just that and talk to Ryder? And Ryder was okay being friends with Hayes after how he hurt me? The only solution we could agree on was a type of don’t ask, don’t tell policy. I didn’t ask if Ryder talked to Hayes, and he didn’t tell me if he did. That and the promise I’d never be a topic in one of their discussions.
So either Ryder’s been lying to me all this time or something has changed to make him break the latter part of our agreement.
I can think of a few options.
Ryder’s words come back to me. Cause that flutter of panic to trigger deep down inside me as pieces fall into place. The knowing look he gave me when he said that. The sudden appearance of the one man we both know is decidedly more successful than Mitch or any of the Laytons. And publicly so.
Holy. Shit.
My brother didn’t let the discussion, or his ridiculous thoughts about why I should go to Mitch’s wedding drop like I thought he had. Weeks have passed. Weeks! And suddenly Hayes Whitley appears out of the blue?
All it takes is a split second of time to conclude why Hayes is here. What Ryder has gone and done. And I die a slow death of indignity, my pride thoroughly obliterated.
Fury fires within: at Ryder for calling him; at Hayes for coming here, which could potentially twist my insides and bring back feelings, emotions, and memories when I don’t want to be reminded. I want to be angry at him—for leaving me, for never speaking to me again, for showing up here with that disarming smile and knowing look like he’s going to win me over in the blink of an eye.
Well, he won’t.
“I don’t need your help.” My pride wars on every level with the comment. My acknowledgement of why he’s here. My not needing him to think I look good or bad or anywhere in between. “Or your compliments.” I bite back the emotion swimming in my voice. The bitterness inflamed over time.
“Did I miss something here?” He draws the question out while I just stare at him, hands on my hips, the chip lodged firmly on my shoulder.
“I’m going to kill him,” I mutter under my breath choosing to focus my brewing anger at my brother because it’s easier than acknowledging the confusion I’m feeling.
His chuckle rings around the empty bakery. It scrapes over my soul and opens those wounds I thought had healed. “Well, good thing you said him so I can assume you’re talking about someone else.”
“You’re not far behind Ryder on the hit list.”
“You always were quick with that temper of yours.” A flash of a grin. A shake of his head. His unrelenting stare.
And I hate that he seems amused. I feel like I’m being mocked. Played. And every part of it grates against my sensibilities. My body’s visceral reaction to him—the undeniable attraction still simmering beneath the layers of resentment—battles against my mind’s staunch refusal to acknowledge him.
“You lost the right to know anything about me ten years ago.”
“Agreed.” He purses his lips and nods, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders shrugged up like he understands my position. And I don’t want him to be understanding. I want him to be the cocky asshole because I refuse to fall under that boy-next-door charm, I know from experience he can turn on like the flick of a switch.