Sweet Cheeks(36)

Oh my God. The Copa Villa. The most private and expensive of all of the villas in the resort. I remember it now. Mrs. Layton’s insistence that this was where Mitch and I should spend our first night together as a married couple. How when I looked at the ridiculous room rate, I laughed out loud. And when the humor subsided, I’d been too embarrassed to tell her there was no way I could afford it. How I lied about booking an Internet deal for the vacation package to justify why I said that no upgrades were allowed. And of course she’d seen right through the lie. Knew I couldn’t afford anything else on my already maxed-out credit card and then insisted she personally foot the bill.

I shake my head thinking of that argument. How it should have been a warning sign to me how controlling she could be. But I didn’t back down. No. I stood my ground and held firm to my dignity. It was so very important to pay for some part of my wedding instead of letting the Laytons happily foot every cost.

It was the only time in my years with Mitch that I saw her back down.

And so much irony now with the fact this is where I’m staying with Hayes.

Hayes.

I’m so furious at him. How dare he pay such a ridiculous amount to stay here this weekend? He’s already doing enough as it is.

Maybe it’s a security thing. He needs to be away from other guests for his safety? Perhaps. I try to talk myself into the notion so that when I walk into the villa and see him, I’m not grumpy right off the bat over this.

Then the thought creeps in my mind and I don’t even bother biting back the chuckle that falls from my mouth. Rico looks back at me, and I just shake my head that I’m okay. I wonder what Squeaky, Nasal, and Mrs. Layton will think if they find out where I’m staying.

And then I wonder if there is nothing but the best for her son, where exactly are Mitch and Sarah staying on their wedding night if we’re staying in the villa?

Guess this girl from the valley gets the last laugh after all.

Rico slows and hands me the keycard with a promise my luggage will be delivered shortly, smiles, wishes me a good day, and then leaves me alone with a whole new set of nerves for a completely different reason.

I feel like an imposter the minute I step inside the luxurious villa. It has clean lines and warm colors. A cool breeze filters down the hall and teases the hair that’s fallen from my ponytail so it tickles my cheeks. I move through the foyer and down the hallway to a decadent great room. Wow. What a view. My feet falter as the back of the house and its wall of glass come into sight. Its pocket doors are open wide so the ocean breeze flows in and swirls the curtains on the bay windows to the side of me. The aqua water and white sand of the beach is just a few feet from the covered veranda beyond the sliding doors.

The kitchen is to my right: spacious granite countertops, huge island with brown rattan stools, and stainless steel appliances with white cabinets. When I turn to my left to take in the sitting room—luxurious leather couches and soft pillows—I stop midstride.

Lying sound asleep on one of the couches is Hayes. One arm bent and resting above his head, the other falling slightly off the couch, legs crossed and propped up on the armrest. His shirt is off, and his board shorts hang dangerously low on his hips.

My feet move in reflex, my eyes fixated on him—on everything about him—as I take the few steps down into the living room toward him. He’s so damn handsome, my breath catches.

Removing both the gilded lights of Hollywood and my veil of contempt, it’s impossible to deny how striking Hayes is. In so many ways. And seeing him like this—completely relaxed—I’m in awe over how the boy I used to love has become this man.

Because he definitely is a man.

All six foot plus of him is filled out now, firm and muscular. My eyes roam over defined pecs, sculpted abs, and toned legs prompting a memory of the skinny boy with two missing front teeth who used to knock on the front door and ask if Ryder could come out and play.

The smile is automatic as I see the scar on the right side of his abdomen, a jagged, white line barely noticeable unless you know to look for it. I think back to the brace-faced teenager who would just walk in my house without knocking.

“Double dare you, Whitley!”

I can still hear my brother at twelve years old. Still hear Hayes boast how easy it would be to clear the fence from a dead standstill. Can remember the shout of triumph as he cleared it, but then the cry of pain when he immediately lost his balance, and fell onto the jagged rock on the other side. Then the concern on my mom’s face as she drove him to the doctor’s office to get the stitches that made the scar.

I study his face: the day’s growth on his jaw, the fan of his dark lashes against his cheeks, his perfect lips.