Sweet Cheeks(13)

“So there you are,” I say as I set the last box down. “One hundred twenty cupcakes, paid in full. I hope you . . . your great-uncle’s family thinks they are reflective of his service.” I keep my eyes trained on the boxes, my voice full of forced cheer as if I didn’t just make a complete ass out of myself.

Hayes’s hands come into my view as they lift the pink and white striped lid of the uppermost box. I focus on them. I always had a thing for his hands. My mind flashes back. Lying on the Pendleton blanket in the bed of his truck. The trees swaying above us. The heat of him beside me. My fingers tracing over the lines on his palm. Our talk turning to our futures. Our hopes. Our dreams.

“Saylor?”

His voice calling my name feels like déjà vu, but it’s enough to pull me from thoughts I shouldn’t be having. My eyes flash up to his and I’m immediately brought back to reality. To the nerves suddenly vibrating through me. To that quick pang the memory caused.

“Yeah?”

“These are incredible. Thank you. My mom will love them.”

My smile is natural when I think of his mom. “Please give her my condolences. I didn’t realize the connection or else I would have called her. Sent her a card. Something.” I sigh, the awkwardness never ending. The curiosity in his eyes over what my rant was about never manifests itself into words, and I don’t volunteer the answers. I glance down to my fidgeting fingers and then back up to him. “Can you just forget everything I’ve said? I thought . . . I misunderstood something and I . . . can we just pretend like it never happened?”

Pretty please? My eyes beg him while my posture remains rigid.

“Sure.” That’s all he says. His expression is guarded and gives me no indication whether he thinks I’m crazy. If I were him, I’d be pissed if someone treated me like I did—made the assumptions I made—and he has every right to want to walk out of here and never want to see me again. “I’ll give my mom your condolences.”

He picks up the first three stacked boxes of cupcakes and I scramble around the counter. “Here, let me help you.”

“No. Please don’t,” he says as he heads toward the door. “I don’t need your help, either.”

I stop in my tracks as he pushes open the door with his hip and disappears outside. Pride has me needing to save face. The unknown I feel inside has me wanting to make things right so the lasting impression he has of me is not this schizophrenic woman.

Grabbing the remaining two boxes of his order, I make my way out of the shop to where he’s placing them in the trunk of a ridiculously sexy, sleek sports car. When he stands up and meets my eyes, a lock of hair has fallen over his forehead, and I’m reminded of who we used to be together. He takes the boxes from me without a word, sets them inside, and shuts the trunk. His eyes are on the keys in his hands as he walks slowly to the driver’s side of the car.

So many things I need to say to him, about what happened minutes ago and over ten years ago, and yet I think I’ve already said enough.

He rests his forearms on the top of his car, his eyes still focused on where his fingers toy with his keys. “You always were quick with that temper, Say. Used to cause a lot of problems for you. Seems it still does.” He lifts his face to meet mine but his sunglasses hide his eyes. “Thanks for the cupcakes. I’ll see you around.”

Without another word, Hayes lowers himself into the car. The engine purrs to life, rumbles in my chest, and he pulls out of the parking lot while I stand there watching him leave.

The difference is this time I know he’s leaving.

And at least I know why.

Was it my fault he left last time too? My impatience? My assumptions? Had I not read him then as I couldn’t read him today? I hate the unanswered questions that drift through my mind and despise the doubts that weigh them down. Because regardless of how many times I’ve discredited them in the past, they still linger.

Still haunt.

I don’t know how long I stand there and stare but I’m well aware that DeeDee is waiting to pounce on me for information the minute I go inside. When I push open the door, the sight of her standing there—arms crossed, foot tapping, grin so big her cheeks might crack—confirms my suspicion.

“No. Fricking. Way.” DeeDee’s eyes bug out of her head as I walk into Sweet Cheeks. “That was . . . he was . . . oh my God, you know Hayes Whitley. Like know-know him.”

I hear what she says, her prattling, yet I walk past her and into the back kitchen area without a word. I just need a few minutes to wrap my head around exactly what happened. My assumptions. My temper.