Sweet Cheeks(73)

I struggle to stutter out a response. My eyes are wide and my mind reels at how much I underestimated Sarah by thinking she was spineless and compliant. I guess it’s only at her discretion. Like when it comes to planning her own wedding.

For some reason, I get the feeling Sarah is just as manipulative as Uptight Ursula.

“Oh.” It seems to be my go-to response while I blink rapidly and look back and forth from Sarah to Mitch to see him just as unhappy with this situation as I am. Talk about being put on the spot. “Um.” I shift my feet, lift my chin, and make sure my shoulders are squared. I want everyone watching to know I am not the least bit intimidated. “Couldn’t we have done this at a different time other than your wedding? I don’t want to take away—”

“I had planned on doing it at the rehearsal dinner. There was a reason you were invited to it, after all, but it seems you were . . .” she clears her throat, finds the words to continue, “. . . otherwise occupied last night.” Her smile is tight and her eyes flicker over to Hayes to reinforce her implication. And I know it’s just a lucky guess on her part what we were doing to miss the rehearsal dinner, but I’m sure I blush a little at the assumed accusation.

“Hayes Whitley. The one who otherwise occupied her.” Hayes extends a hand to Sarah, and I love that he just put her in her place without the blink of his eyes or an inflection in his tone. “It was a lovely ceremony. Great choices all around on the wedding details. You must have had an incredible wedding planner.”

I cough to cover my snort at his politely phrased insult.

The muscle in Mitch’s jaw ticks. I’m not sure if it’s because of what Hayes said about occupying me, or the fact that Hayes just called out his new wife to see if she’s going to bite on taking credit for the planning . . . she didn’t do.

She stares at Hayes. Ice-blue eyes gauging how to take the comment. As sincere or snide.

“It’s about that time, ladies and gents. Will she or won’t she? Will he or won’t he? Yes. It’s cake smashing . . . er . . . cutting time for Mrs. and Mr. Layton.”

The room erupts into a nervous chatter of sorts, almost as if they’re uncertain how this little talk between the four of us is going. When his mother starts clapping, the other guests follow suit to encourage Sarah and Mitch to move to the cake table.

And away from me.

Sarah’s smile is forced, her gaze unwavering. “Please talk to him. For my sake,” she urges quietly before she hooks her arm in Mitch’s, smile now turning genuine, and heads to the cake table.

“Well, what do you know? Seems Golf Boy married his mother,” Hayes murmurs under his breath. And this time I do snort aloud because he just hit the nail on the head.

And before I can process any of the last five minutes, Hayes casually laces his fingers with mine and tugs on my hand to follow suit with how he has now sat down.

“Can’t say I blame her,” he muses casually as one of our table members stops by to pick up their drink and head over to watch them cut the cake.

“Why?” I ask, even though I already know what he means. I’d want the same undivided attention from my spouse, but I’m not sure I’d go as far as she has to get it.

“You’re a hard one to get over, Saylor Rodgers.”

Hayes’s comment is on constant repeat in my head long after we eat cake. We’re sitting politely at our table, waiting for the proper amount of time before we bail on the rest of the reception. If we leave too soon, guests will assume our exchange with Mitch and Sarah rattled me. And so we’re kind of stuck, with comments becoming a little less obscure the longer the alcohol has flowed.

“C’mon,” Hayes reaches his hand out to me, “if we’re stuck at this damn party, we might as well have some fun.”

I trudge behind him at first as he leads me toward the dance floor but then realize he’s right. We are invited guests who have done nothing wrong. Why not enjoy ourselves instead of simply observing from our chairs? I gain more confidence with each step. Heads turn as we walk by. Drinks stop halfway to mouths. Elbows nudge the person beside them to take note of whatever it is we’re doing.

Watch the bride and groom, people. They are way more interesting. And the reason you’re here in the first place.

The music is slow and classical when we walk onto the sparsely occupied dance floor. I falter momentarily, unsure how to do anything other than bump and grind or the slow-dance-sway from back in high school. I mean, how many times in your adult life does one actually go dancing to learn otherwise?

“Take my lead,” Hayes murmurs when he pulls me into him and begins to move. At first I think he’s just doing his own thing, but soon realize there is a definite pattern to his steps. A defined rhythm and timing.