Sweet Cheeks(51)

I think about my parents. About their love. About how they only wanted the best for me. They would have loved my bakery. And I know deep down that despite the heartache I had walking away from Mitch, my mother may have turned over in her grave if I had married him here at her dream destination.

Because she would have known—always did—what was best for me even when I couldn’t see it myself. Youthfulness often has a way of blinding you to truths.

And Mitch wasn’t what was best for me.

But Hayes on the other hand . . . she always did have a soft spot for him. I think she’d be smiling, knowing I’m presently enjoying her idea of paradise with him. That we’re burying the past so we can be friends. And that despite the heartbreak he caused me, she was right: he is the good guy she thought he was because he’s here trying to help me save face.

I’m distracted from my thoughts when a resort employee walks out of a fork in the path in front of us. She momentarily meets Hayes’s gaze, nods her head at him before smiling at me, and then makes her way down the path beyond us.

“So I have a confession,” he says solemnly, causing my feet to falter and my eyes to wander to anywhere but on him.

“Nothing good ever comes from those opening words.” I’m not sure why I’m already nervous about this. Why the single phrase has my pulse accelerating.

He chuckles but doesn’t respond before walking a few feet, looking back to me, and then disappearing the same way the resort worker had just come from. I follow him into this little alcove carved out of the thick, tropical foliage. Its fronds shade us from the sun overhead and partially obscure us from any other guests exploring like we were. “Sit.”

I narrow my eyes but oblige him after he sits down first. And I’m so fixated on the discord humming within me that I don’t notice the box on the bench until he picks it up. And when I do, my eyes immediately home in on the pink pastry packaging.

“Hayes?”

He doesn’t respond but rather opens the box so I can see a dozen lavishly decorated cupcakes inside. I’m so confused. What do cupcakes have to do with his confession?

“Just humor me, okay?” His dimples deepen with his smile.

“Sure.” I rub my hands on my thighs and wait.

“When I arrived the other day before you, I thought I’d be nice and go buy some cupcakes, have them in the villa as a little treat for when you arrived. Looking back, the idea was stupid since you are usually up to your elbows in cupcake batter and frosting, so why would you want more? But my God, Ships, they tasted like shit. Nothing like yours whatsoever.”

My laugh rings out. He likes my cupcakes. My ego has definitely been boosted. “So that’s your confession? That the cupcakes are horrible?”

“In a sense.” He nods his head and looks back down to the box’s contents. “But you see, I know how long your anger can last, and I don’t want you to be angry with me anymore. You can hold a mean grudge, Saylor Rodgers, and so I bought you these.”

He holds the box out to me and now I’m even more confused. My chuckle reflects my mix of emotions. “Let me get this straight. You don’t want me to hold a grudge against you, so you bought me a box of cupcakes you think taste like crap?”

“Yep.” His smile broadens and body shifts so his knee is on the bench and shoulders face me.

“Okay.” I laugh the word out, befuddled but amused. “But I’m not holding a grudge against you. I told myself I was going to come here and wash the slate clean. The past is the past, and it’s over and done with.”

He mulls the words over, the look on his face says he’s skeptical whether he really believes me or not, then picks up a cupcake and hands it to me. What in the hell is going on here? “Hayes?”

“Just hold it because while I think they may taste like shit, I do think they’ll be perfect grudge-busters.”

“Grudge-busters? What? I’m so confused right now. What the hell is a grudge-buster?”

“It’s this.” I bite out a yelp as he picks a cupcake up and smacks his hands together with a dramatic flair. Bits of cupcake and frosting fly everywhere, like a confectionary explosion. There are crumbs stuck to his chest, all over his board shorts, in his hair, on his lips that are open and laughing, and understandably, smashed all over his hands.

Probably exactly what I look like at the end of a long day.

“Are you crazy?” I shriek but the words come out in a vomit of laughter. To see a man, who always looks so perfect no matter what time of day, look like the mischievous little boy from my childhood makes my heart swell.