Sweet Cheeks(45)

Then I’m brought back to reality and that this isn’t really a vacation. I’m here for a reason. I’m also most likely hiding out in my room to avoid Hayes since I made a fool out of myself last night. And while he may never have known my thoughts, I sure as heck did, and that in itself warrants feeling embarrassed.

But isn’t he just as much to blame as I was? Holding me close? Looking at me with that unrelenting intensity in his eyes? Yes. It was definitely all his fault. Ha. At least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself to justify my overreaction and wistful longing last night.

Hell, I have three more days of sharing the same space with Hayes. Of being around him and trying not to feel confused every time he looks at me. Or smiles at me. Or calls me Ships Ahoy.

Hayes Whitley twists me up like a Rubik’s cube. He did way back when and still does now. He’s changed me. Turned that naïve, solid-color blocked puzzle I once was and left me scattered all over the place. I’m a mix of emotions when it comes to him. And no matter how hard I’ve tried to get back to that solid state I was before him, I know I never will.

He’s left his fingerprint on me, marking me with invisible ink.

And being here is like stepping under a black light. Every single one of those scars becomes visible, brought to light so I can’t ignore them anymore.

Forcing me to face them once and for all.

I take my time getting ready. Fight the endless flyaway hairs from the humidity until I give up and just pull my hair back into a clip. After adding some mascara and lip gloss, I lather on the sunblock, unsure what adventure The Captain has for me today.

Just like that, he brings a silly smile to my face, even when he’s not in front of me. It’s like old times. When I’d wake up on summer break and he’d be at the front door, telling Ryder and me what adventures we were going on for the day.

And as if on cue, I hear him shout through the closed door. I can’t make out any words, but hear more than just a growl of frustration. Finally, my curiosity prevails and I leave my room to go satisfy it.

I hear his voice immediately and can see him out on the patio from where I stand in the hallway. He’s turned sideways, body obscured by the pillar, face angled as he talks to someone.

“Did you really think I’d give in so easily? Walk away without a fight?” He shakes his head and laughs but there’s no amusement in it.

Keeping against the wall, I take a step closer, craning my neck to see who he’s speaking to, but I can’t see or hear whoever it is.

“You don’t get it, do you? I begged, borrowed, and lied to get this chance again. To stand here in front of you one more time. To right my wrongs. To make you see why I am, can’t—SHIT!” There’s a bang as he hits his fist against the side of the pillar. His sigh is loud, his frustration evident in the sound alone. He steps back, and I can see him fully now. Board shorts, no shirt, a baseball cap slung low over his forehead with dark hair curling out at the back, and blue sheets of paper in his hand.

“Hayes?” I step out from my spot in the hallway and into the great room. His head snaps up at the sound of my voice through the opened pocket doors. He blushes immediately and it gives me pause because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hayes Whitley blush.

Be still my heart. Because Confident Hayes is one thing, but Shy Hayes? That’s a whole other stratosphere of attraction. Like I’m-screwed type of attraction.

But then I remember him being embarrassed means I’ve caught him with someone or doing something and now I feel like an idiot. Serves me right for being nosy.

“Hey.” He sets the papers in his hand down and leans against the pillar behind him. His smile soothes away my unease.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and . . .” My voice fades off as I step out onto the patio and am surprised to find no one else out there.

He laughs at the perplexed look on my face. “Sorry. I was running lines and got frustrated trying to figure out how to play this scene.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought . . . never mind.” When I look back up from where he just hung his thumbs into his board shorts—my mind temporarily dazed by the abs and happy trail and the V—our eyes meet and hold.

Something about the fact that he actually has to practice at his craft kind of throws me. He’s always been perfect at everything he tries first time around and the notion that he is practicing, rehearsing, tells me he truly does care about what he does. That he takes it seriously. It’s such a change from the fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants mentality he used to have.

Practice before baseball try-outs? Of course not. And then he made starting lineup. Study before his final exams? Why would he? He aced them anyway.