Sweet Cheeks(25)

I clear my throat. Try to concentrate on the conversation instead of her hand on my thigh where her fingers are dangerously close to my dick. Focus on anything but that.

“You okay?”

She looks down at me: lips parted, eyes wide, and fuck if the look on her face—innocent, complicated, pure Saylor—doesn’t make me think of the pressure of her fingers again. “Yeah.” She swallows and nods. “I’m fine. Just caught me off guard.”

“Okay.” I shift up. Figure that’s the best way to get her hand off my thigh. Try to be the good guy here. And the minute I move, she immediately jerks her hand back as if she didn’t realize it was there. Good thing her hand’s not on my thigh now. Bad thing? Bad thing is her lips are inches from mine.

I smell her perfume. See the moonlight in her hair. Hear her draw in a breath. And hell if I don’t need a distraction from stepping over a line I can’t cross.

The sway of her ass tonight at the club.

The sound of her laugh as she climbed the steps up here.

The way she went from fiery to cute in a goddamn second.

Step back, Whitley. Way the fuck back.

“You were saying something about being invited, Saylor?” Distraction. Get the conversation back on track. And my thoughts off of her lips.

“Uh. Yeah.” She shakes her head as if to clear the moment we just had and reaches forward to pick up nothing in particular to have a reason to shift away from me. “Ryder’s lost his mind.”

“And that’s something new?”

I get the smile I was working for but this time it’s more shy than confident. She plucks at the legs of her pants with her fingers. I wait.

“We both agree that Mitch sent the invitation as a kind of fuck you to me, but Ryder thinks I should play him at his own game. That I should accept the invitation and show up at the wedding. He believes the Laytons are badmouthing the bakery and that’s why it’s not doing too well. That they have enough pull with the people in this town, so now I’m like a pariah or something. I don’t know.” She shrugs and chews the inside of her cheek as she pauses for a moment. I can tell she’s hurt by the possibility that her brother’s assumption is true. The girl without a mean bone in her body. “He thinks if I were to stride into the wedding I walked away from and exude absolute confidence, like I knew for a fact that I had made the best decision ever by not marrying Mitch, it wouldn’t go unnoticed. In fact, he thinks that since it’s likely most of the guests have been told horrible things about me, seeing me so unaffected would make them curious. They’d wonder what I know about Mitch that they don’t, and curiosity might lead them to check out the bakery and—”

“And curious people will come to the store and possibly generate business.”

She looks at me, surprised I’ve come to the same conclusion as Ryder, and I cringe inwardly in case I’ve revealed too much.

“So you think he’s right?”

“I think there’s some merit to it,” I muse.

“Why?”

I think of Jenna. Of the burden I’m bearing to play a similar game all for image’s sake. And know if I am doing it for her, and how it could affect my career, I sure as shit will help Saylor if she asks. Now I just need to convince her of that.

“Because I see it every day. Take an actress who breaks up with an A-Lister. There are rumors as to why but no one knows the truth and neither of them comment publicly about their split. All of a sudden, the press wants nothing to do with her. She’s overlooked for parts. Not invited to any parties. She might even be snubbed by their friends if they run in the same circles because it sucks, but people don’t want to piss off the one who has the most power in the relationship.”

“Because that’s fair. Sheesh.”

“Yeah, but she gets the last laugh. She somehow gets her foot in the door somewhere. Shows up looking ten times better than she did before with some star or director or mogul more powerful than her ex on her arm, and it’s amazing how suddenly the people who wanted nothing to do with her are now knocking down her door to be her best friend.”

“Shallow assholes,” she mutters, and I’m pretty sure she’s ticking off names in her head of who that criticism matches.

“Very. But that’s life.”

“In your Hollywood bubble, maybe. Not mine,” she grumbles as if she’s seeing this through different eyes for the first time and is begrudgingly accepting it.

“Not my bubble at all.” I laugh with a shake of my head, needing her to know I’m not like that in the least. She glares at me and I’m not sure why. Is she putting two and two together?