Sweet Cheeks(3)

I shrug, loving that he thinks I’m worth fighting for, and at the same time understand the fact that Mitch not fighting for me, was an answer in itself. “If you were in his shoes, how would you have handled it?”

“Me?” He laughs with a sheepish grin that suggests what he’s about to tell me may or may not have happened in the past. “After the girl refused to talk to me, I would have gotten shitfaced. It wouldn’t have been pretty. Then I probably would’ve pounded on her door all night long until she was so sick of it, she’d have to face me. And if she wouldn’t and I had to gather some sort of self-respect, I would’ve probably gone out, drank some more, slept with the first willing candidate because . . . well because, if I ask someone to marry me, I mean it. And now I’ve just wasted six years of my life, am pissed as hell, and would want some way to feel better about myself. So yeah . . . not classy but that’s what I would have done.”

I snort. “Sounds about right, and yet for the life of me I can’t see Mitch acting like that—the going out and screwing the first thing he laid eyes on part.”

His sarcastic laugh rings around the empty bakery. “Hate to break it to you, sis, but obviously he did or else he wouldn’t be getting married this quickly.”

And I can’t hide the fact that the notion stings. But at least it solidifies one of two things: he either felt the same way about our relationship as I did, or he fell in love with Rebound Sarah because I bruised his ego and she made him feel good again.

“Maybe he wants to prove he’s over me despite the comments I’ve overheard that she’s a carbon copy of me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as those words stop his trek back into the office. The notion that Mitch is marrying another tall, aqua-eyed, blonde-haired woman with olive skin hits him.

He laughs, sarcasm ringing in it as I hear the shuffle of papers on my messy desk in the back room. “Where’s the RSVP card? I’ll send it back and let him know just what I think about how smart you were to dump his ass. Pretentious prick.”

Luckily Ryder can’t see me from where he stands because I’m certain my scrunched up nose and the falter in my icing would give away what I did.

“Saylor?”

“Hmm?” Indifference.

And there must be something in how I respond that catches the tiny inflection in my tone.

“Please tell me you’re not actually considering going.”

“No. Of course not.” Eyes on the next cupcake. My fingers squeezing another row of pearls around the edge. My feet shifting to abate the weight of his scrutinizing stare.

“Where’s the card then?”

“I must have lost it. Or thrown it out.” Dodge. Avoid. Ignore. “Oh. Maybe it fell on the floor and is under the desk—”

“You’ve always been a horrible liar.” I can hear the confused disbelief in his tone as he takes a few steps toward me. I immediately let go of my hair wound around my finger. My tell. “The question is, what exactly are you lying about?”

“Nothing. Drop it.”

“Did you return the RSVP, Saylor?”

“Yes. No. It’s not what you think . . .” I blow out an exasperated sigh while he stares, waiting for me to continue. I hate that I feel like a child about to get scolded for doing something stupid. “I marked the card out of spite. I had no intention of going at all . . . but then DeeDee picked it up and mailed it in by accident and . . . well, now they think I’m coming. With a date no less.”

“That’s classic.” He laughs but the sound fades as he narrows his eyes and his thoughts connect. “Hold up. So you marked the card out of spite. I can buy that. But if you had no intention of ever going, then why did you put it in the envelope? That kind of tells me the thought somewhat crossed your mind.”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, trying to figure out where he’s going with this. “I just did. There was no hidden meaning behind it, Ryder.” He’s starting to piss me off. I know he’s reading into this, thinking more of it than he should, and I just want him to go away so I can decorate in peace.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there and continues to stare like I’ve done something wrong.

“You do realize Mitch sent you the invitation as a joke, right? That neither of them actually want you at their wedding.”

I roll my eyes and huff. “I’m not a child. Or an idiot. I know they don’t want me there and I assure you, I don’t want to be there.”

“You sure about that?”

My head snaps up to meet the questioning in his eyes. “Am I sure about what?” There’s a bite of anger in my voice. A tinge of why are you questioning me?