Sweet Cheeks(69)

You’re kidding me, right? I bite back the smartass retort. Focus on keeping this as civil as possible. “If that’s what you want to think.”

“No. It’s what I know.” He takes a step back. Shakes his head. Looks back to me like I’m crazy—a pompous smirk on his lips. “Leave your keys on the counter on the way out. Hope your cupcakes can keep you warm at night, but I doubt it.”

And then he turned his back on me and walked away. Back to his Golf Digest or to polish his nine iron, or whatever it was that he cared so much about. Because it definitely wasn’t me, and his reaction—or lack thereof—just proved it.

He didn’t even seem angry. Or surprised. More than anything, he appeared put out. I had felt dismissed. Not missed.

So why did he send me the stupid invitation to this wedding if he didn’t care about me then?

The guests in the rows in front of us block my view, so when people finally take a seat, I think I’m the last to do so because I can finally see clearly. Mitch, handsome and debonair as ever, looks nervous, but only in a way that someone who has known him for a long time can notice. It’s the continued flex of his hands. The chuckle that sounds off. But then again, a lot of people are nervous when getting married.

And when she takes her place beneath the trellis and faces Mitch, her face falls perfectly into my line of sight.

The surprised murmur that Hayes softly emits says it all for me. Either Mitch definitely has a type—the blonde-haired, blue-eyed type—or it’s a complete coincidence that Sarah Taylor could be my long-lost sister.

I sit on the edge of my chair, eyes blinking as if I don’t believe what I’m seeing, but then again isn’t it just par for the course? Hayes rubs a hand up and down my back, a tangible reminder to remain calm, while I watch the ceremony.

And I’m not sure how I feel. My insides are a hurricane of emotions, each one blowing through quickly to make room for the next one. My stomach churns watching the life I could have had be given to someone else. Taken by someone else. And she may very well be deserving of it. On the other hand, maybe this is the life and social status she’s searched for, and if letting Mitch’s mom plan the wedding is the price she has to pay, she’s willing to give up the control to get what she wants. Unlike me.

I look to Mitch and his sure and steady movements. He’s a bit calmer now, so I study his face, watch his hands, and wait for that gut-wrenching pang of regret to hit me. The one that knocks me upside the head and tells me I made the hugest mistake walking away from him. That I still love him.

But it doesn’t come. Not once.

One of the two reasons I came here was to get this feeling and sense that I did the right thing. Sitting here, as a guest at the wedding I was invited to possibly to make a mockery of me, I can easily say I sure as hell did the right thing.

And I wonder how much the man beside me has helped to reinforce that feeling. How much hearing him validate some of my opinions, even though he didn’t know he was, has helped me and this newfound sense of self. The carefree, spontaneous sense of self I lost so very long ago.

I also study her, knowing this will be the only time I can without people thinking I’m being rude. She is the bride, after all, and the center of everyone’s attention right now.

Her hair is a similar shade to mine. Her makeup is flawless and her stature similar. She seems sure of herself. Happy. In love. Stunning. Classy. Timeless.

And so I watch the man I spent over six years of my life with marry a woman he met less than nine months ago.

Or maybe he met her before I left him? Maybe she was waiting in the wings and swooped in for the prize the minute she found out we had broken up? Or even worse, maybe they were sneaking around behind my back and that’s why Mitch was so indifferent to my leaving? The errant thoughts grow crazier with each second that passes. But regardless how bizarre my imagination makes them, one thing remains the same.

When I look at Mitch, I feel nothing.




“You’re awfully quiet.” His arm drapes across the back of my chair so his hand can rest on my opposite arm. He gives a gentle nudge of his knee against mine. Little reminders to let me know he’s beside me. But it’s not like I could forget. Between the numerous guests staring at us to the camera phones snapping pictures on the sly, it seems that everyone knows Hayes Whitley is here. And a catty part of me wonders how many of the cameras left on the tabletops for guests to use to help document the reception are going to have pictures of Hayes on them. With me.

The irony is not lost on me. Nor is it on Hayes evidently by the way he was so generous with his time by taking pictures and giving autographs while we waited for the wedding party to finish their post-ceremony pictures.