Sweet Cheeks(43)

“I don’t care. No one is going to convince me otherwise,” I say, in an attempt to sound serious despite the smile that hasn’t left my lips since we started our dominating karaoke run on the mic.

His laugh echoes off the concrete as we weave through the outdoor corridors of the hotel. “You need help.”

“Says the man who demanded he be called The Captain every time the announcer summoned us to the stage despite everyone knowing you were Hayes Whitley.” I giggle as he hangs an arm over my shoulders and pulls me against him for support. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I don’t know and I don’t care because I’m having more fun in what feels like forever and it’s all because of him.

“Says the woman who sang, ‘Might as well face it you’re a dick with a glove.’” His laugh rings out again.

“And what is wrong with that? Look it up. I bet you . . . I don’t know what I bet you.” I slur my words a little bit. “But I assure you those are the correct lyrics that Robert Palmer sings.”

“No. It’s addicted to love, Ships. Addicted to love,” he enunciates while fighting back the laugh. “Not a dick with a glove.”

“Hmpf.” I try to pout but it’s just no use. His words are sluggish too and his body so warm against mine. I feel lighthearted after so much weight lately that all I can do is smile and laugh and not want the sidewalk to end at our door where I can see it does a few yards ahead.

“Are you going to pout?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are, and I’ve got the perfect cure for that.” In a completely unexpected move, he takes my arm and twirls me out and then pulls me back in. Paradise spins around me. It keeps moving even when I land solidly against him.

Our laughter fades and our smiles slide into parted lips. His hand still holds mine against my lower back and his chest moves against mine. My face lifts up as his tilts down and our eyes fasten on each other’s. There’s an earnestness I haven’t seen in his before. There’s also amusement. Such an odd combination, almost as if he can see things I don’t want him to see just yet.

Kiss me.

Oh my God. What am I thinking? He can’t kiss me. It’s a horrible idea. Too many reasons to list why he shouldn’t.

And yet I want him to kiss me. Just once.

So we can get it out of our systems, put the past to rest, and move on. But then again, would I be able to move on?

Even at the age of seventeen, Hayes could kiss in a way that made me feel like I’d just laid every part of my soul on the line when his lips left mine. And I’m not sure I can handle feeling that right now. Every part of this situation already makes me feel so vulnerable and exposed as it is. Add in being confused over how the kiss would make me feel and that’s not something I need to add to the mix.

Yet as the silence stretches, neither of us move. And when his eyes flicker down to my lips and then back up to my eyes again, I don’t think I ever want to.

My desire wars against my better judgment.

His body is warm and firm against mine. A tangible temptation that’s hard to resist.

Just kiss me.

I wait for him to. I want him to.

And then I realize what an idiot I’m being. How he’s probably thinking how pathetic I look standing here waiting to be kissed in the moonlight like some pathetic sap. Embarrassed and flustered, I step back needing to create some distance from him.

“I’m sorry.” I turn and walk to the front door.

“Saylor.” Hayes calls out to me and I tell myself to keep walking. That there is a famous starlet named Tessa who he isn’t dating but most likely sleeps with. That there is a world of difference between our two lives—glitz, red carpets, and glamour versus frosting-spattered hair, Nutella, and NetFlix—and even if we share a kiss, nothing will lessen that chasm.

I’m such a wreck. I’m over here turning a playful twirl in the moonlight into a kiss I don’t want to want, to fantasizing how it would lead to my happily ever after.

He calls my name again as his footsteps sound on the pavement behind me. I don’t want to face him right now and yet as I reach the door, I realize he’s holding the key to unlock it. Fucking perfect. A self-deprecating laugh falls from my mouth. There’s a tinge of hysteria to it. A bit of disbelief fringing its edges from my out-of-control imagination.

My sudden irrationality has to be a combination of everything jading my thoughts: the alcohol, the fun evening, the comfort of being with someone who used to know everything about me, the indescribable paradise surrounding us. It all contributes to the Saylor was almost going to make an ass out of herself moment I just had. I guarantee that won’t be happening again anytime soon.