Sweet Cheeks(57)

At least we got it out of our systems. But it’s definitely not out of my system—not by a long shot—because that kiss was anything but simple. It was a no-holds-barred, steal-your-breath, make-you-want-without-regret kiss.

Hence the reason I’m still so damn emotional over it a few hours later.

Sift the flour with the baking powder. Check the oven to see if it’s at temperature yet. Is he questioning himself now like I am? Wanting more yet not acting on it because he realizes it’s an all around bad idea? Add a pinch of salt. Or is this all a scene to act out in a comedic script to him? Lift my eyes and stare at the view beyond but not really see it because I’m lost in thought. Lost over everything really when it comes to Hayes.

I kept thinking that if we kissed under the guise of it being for onlookers, it was going to help rid the ghost of us from my memory. But I was so very wrong. Now I feel like it’s awakened them rather than bury them for good.

Stir.

He’s an actor, Saylor. This is what he does for a living. Plays to the crowd.

Stir.

He was just playing the part. It was a kiss. A moment. And then he turned it off like a light switch the second you were out of sight of everyone else. Just like he did when we ran lines.

Stir.

You’re reading too much into it, Saylor. But if it was all an act, why did Hayes murmur those words against my lips? Why did he hesitate pulling away?

A part of me thinks it was more than show. Hopes it was. Doesn’t hope it was. Jesus, I’m a mess. And yet I was there. I sensed his hunger behind the kiss, felt the intent in his touch, and saw the desire in his eyes.

Pick up the rubber spatula. Scrape the batter down the sides of the bowl.



Ships,

Just in case you need to busy your hands in batter.

- Hayes



The note he’d left me on the counter catches my eye again over the edge of the bowl. The one I had found on top of a stack of ingredients, bowls, and utensils when I walked into the kitchen from my post-massage shower.

If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have known that when I’m confused I use baking as my therapy. Use the comfort it brings to help me work through my thoughts.

No. If he didn’t care, he would have acted more like Mitch: focus on him. On his needs. His wants. Without a thought to my need for a mental recess.

But he does care. The note. The ingredients. The cooking instruments. Ensuring the villa had cupcake trays and liners. Understanding I’m confused and need this to help me work through it. All of those things say he does.

Don’t they?

Check to see if the oven has hit temperature. Hands falter mid-stir.

I had to have misread him and his intentions. Had to have thought there was more to his touch than there really was, because afterward, he dismissed me without a second look. In fact he almost seemed irritated with me, like I did something wrong.

Ready to spoon the batter, I pick up the metal cupcake tray from the counter behind me and slam it down onto the granite top a little harder than necessary. The sound reverberates through the house but does nothing to abate my frustration. This is so screwed.

Place the cupcake liners in the tray. Count the rows. Placate my obsessive thoughts.

What if I’m wrong? What if Hayes wanted to kiss me? What if he shared in my curiosity and wanted to know if there was anything lingering between us so he took advantage of the moment?

And damn, what a moment it was.

But now I’m drowning in perplexity. In bewilderment. In the fear and desire of wanting him to kiss me again despite knowing that wanting more is only going to lead to getting hurt again. And in the confusion over how a single kiss from Hayes can wind me up tighter than a spring when not once in the six years with Mitch did he ever make me feel this way.

But Hayes pulled back. He erased the emotion from his face and walked away—again—as if I irritated him.

I spoon batter into the cups. A little more forcefully than I should. With each scoop my anger builds. My emotions wrenched open like a can opener.

Scoop.

What? I’m not good enough for him anymore? Not posh enough? Not pretty enough on the Hollywood starlet scale of beauty?

Scoop.

Well, screw you, Hayes Whitley. Screw you and your Academy Award and your walking shoes that you still seem to wear.

Scoop.

Tears blur my vision. Rejection burns brighter than logic. Hurt resurfaces when I force myself to admit that I knew exactly what I was getting into when I arrived here.

Scoop.

I should be mad at myself for not keeping a leash on my emotions. For not remembering how devastating Hayes can be on my heart. For letting the ladies in Starbucks and their catty comments fuel my temper so I screwed over my own sensibility and accepted Hayes’s offer to come here.