“Yeah well, not everyone does.” I laugh. “I guess I wasn’t proper wife material.”
“That’s the biggest bunch of bullshit, and if you believe it for a single second, I’m going to kick Ryder’s ass for letting you.” His eyebrows are lifted, lips pursed, expression unforgiving. And I’ve seen them throw punches at each other so I have no doubt he would.
This time around, Hayes definitely has the advantage.
My laugh floats out and draws the attention of the bartender who flashes a smile my way—eyes roaming over Hayes momentarily—before turning back to her customer. “When it came down to it, our marriage would have worked. I would have made it work,” I say with more conviction than I feel. Resentment I never realized I harbored comes out of nowhere.
Hayes snorts and I’m not sure how to read the sound since his eyes are focused on people on the golf course beyond.
“You would have made it work so long as you sacrificed yourself. That sounds like a stellar marriage. One made to last.”
I stare at him, his sarcasm loud and clear, wanting him to meet my eyes and not meet them all at the same time. I need to show him I’m not that woman. Was I back then? Maybe that’s another reason I stayed with Mitch for so long.
“It doesn’t matter now, really. That or any of the other reasons because we’re not together.”
“Hmpf.”
“Hmpf? What does that mean?” I straighten my spine, suddenly defensive over the feeling that I’m being judged. And who is he to judge when he wasn’t the one here for me after my parents died?
“It could mean a lot of things,” he murmurs as he tips the bottle up to his lips and signals for another one. We’re interrupted momentarily when another guest comes up and asks for his autograph. He handles the woman’s nervous chattering like a pro before turning back to me. His eyes are unrelenting as they stare into mine, gauging how candid he wants his next comment to be. He starts to say something and then shakes his head and closes his mouth before turning back to the view beyond.
“Just say it, Hayes. It’s not like you hold back.”
“The way I see it from the outside is that he was the problem in your relationship, Saylor, not you, as you seem to continually assume. Having a passion like your baking is something that just happens. It’s not controllable. It’s a huge part of you that makes you happy. Calms you. Any person who tells you to suppress it for their own benefit is trying to stifle you. Mold you. Make you someone different than you are. Never let someone steal your passion. If you do, then you’ll resent them. And resentment is the death of any relationship.”
For the umpteenth time since he’s walked back into my life, I just sit and stare at Hayes. Wonder how he’s in my head and knows exactly how I’m feeling. First he connects the dots with my parents. How I don’t want to miss chances like they did. And now this. Understanding the numerous nights I’d sit stewing at home because Mitch made a big fuss about me spending too much time at the bakery. How I’d be miserable, sitting idly by while he perused the Wall Street Journal or New York Times. It’s like he wanted me to want to be with him more for his own ego’s sake, to know I chose him over my work, and not because he actually wanted to spend time with me.
Hearing Hayes say it only reinforces that it was right to end things with Mitch.
“Thank you.” My voice is soft, relieved that someone understands why I felt how I felt.
“There’s no need to thank me.” He shrugs as he sets his bottle down and stands up from his barstool. “Truth is truth, and I’m sorry you had to experience that particular truth. C’mon, I need to do something.”
I look down to the hand he holds out to me and then back up to the brown of his eyes. “Keep this up, Whitley, and I just might start to like you again.”
“You never stopped liking me.” The smile he flashes—one full of arrogance, amusement, and adoration—causes the parts that he’s awakened in me, the ones that wanted to be kissed, to roar back to life.
It’s just the fresh air and different perspective, Saylor. Get a grip.
And so I do just that—get a grip—but this time it’s by taking the hand he offers and following him without asking where we’re going. We walk through the lush grounds and laugh at silly memories I can’t even believe he remembers from our youth. We talk about Ryder and why he hasn’t settled down yet. About the project we rehearsed this morning. About my favorite flavor of cupcakes.
And in all our wandering, I become distracted by both the scenery and by him with his board short-clad hips and his tanned, chiseled chest. Why would I want to pay attention to anything else? So I let him walk in front of me for a while as I happily meander behind, not having a clue where he’s leading me.