Sweet Cheeks (2 page)

How is it possible that the invitation in my hand looks exactly like the one I’d spent hours obsessing over when deciding the particulars for my own wedding invitations?

I rub the expensive paper between my fingers as if I need to make sure it’s real. Finally convinced it is, I scrutinize the details all over again.

It looks like my wedding invitation all right. Same groom—Mitch Layton. Same ceremony time. Same destination: the tropical paradise of Turks and Caicos.

Everything is identical except the bride’s name and the date. Because this invitation says
Sarah Taylor.

And that’s not me.

In fact, the only place it says Saylor Rodgers is on the outside of the envelope where it sits discarded on my desk. I double-check the address one more time. Yep, it was definitely sent to me. On purpose.

I’m an
invited guest
?
Seriously
?

Surely the man I left high and dry the week before
our
wedding wouldn’t invite me to his wedding
—to someone else
—a mere six months after I called ours off.

But there it is. My name. My address.

Sweet Cheeks CupCakery

Attn: Ms. Saylor Rodgers

1313 State Street

Santa Barbara, CA 93101

Definitely not a mistake because that’s me, and this is where he knows to find me.

The irony
. It’s been six months, and not once has Mitch sought me out to ask for a more detailed explanation other than “because I just can’t do this anymore” as to why I left.

And his first attempt at communication is like this? Inviting me to his wedding in what I can only assume is an obvious attempt to show me how easily I could be replaced? To try to make me feel inadequate while boosting that bruised ego of his?

Such a classic Mitch Layton move; passive-aggression at its finest.

My temper fires but I don’t understand why I’m angry. This doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t matter
. But if I don’t care about him in the least, why does the sight of this invitation make my stomach churn?

And even more importantly, why am I setting down the RSVP card, picking up a pen, and opting for the filet mignon rather than the macadamia nut encrusted halibut as my entrée selection when I have no intention of going?

None.

Whatsoever.

Making a selection is just my crazy talking.

So even stranger, why am I placing an X next to the “plus-one” for a guest when there is no plus-one in my life?

I stare at where I wrote my name on the RSVP card, think about everything I’ve been through over the past six months, and know the answer:
because it makes me feel good to do it
. To know that Mitch can’t affect me anymore. He wanted to upset me with the invitation, and hell yes, for a minute I was just that, angry and hurt. Wouldn’t anyone be when they find out their ex-fiancé has moved on so quickly? But when all is said and done, he accomplished nothing more than making me grateful I’m not the one marrying him. I chalk it up to Mitch being Mitch. Egotistical, arrogant, and childish.

Screw him.

So I stuff the RSVP card inside the little self-addressed stamped return envelope.

All the while imagining the look on Mitch’s face when he opens it and finds my name written on the card inside.

I run my tongue over the adhesive on the flap.

Envision his surprise when he sees I’m bringing a date. You’re not the only one who has found someone to make them happy, Mitch
.

Close the flap and press it so it sticks.
Picture the look on Rebound Sarah’s face when he hands it to her and tells her to add two more to her headcount. Does she sneer? Does it cause a fight?
Or do they snicker over it until they sit back and wonder if I’m really going to show up.

And then worry that I am.

Even if I’m the only one who’ll ever know it, there’s an oddly therapeutic sense of satisfaction holding the sealed envelope in my hand. In knowing his plan has backfired.

God, I’m being ridiculous.

I roll my eyes and toss the sealed envelope on my desk with no intention of ever thinking about it again. I shouldn’t have wasted my time filling it out in the first place because
I don’t care
. Not one bit. Not about him or what the future Mrs. Layton looks like or his childish need to get the last word in about our relationship by sending me this.

In fact, leaving him was the best thing I’ve ever done.

I’m happier now.

Without a doubt.

Definitely happier.

I think.

“S
aylor.”

My brother grumbles my name for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. I ignore him and keep my focus on the elaborate design I’m perfecting on the cupcake in front of me instead.

It’s so much easier to keep my head in the sand than listen to the lecture I know is coming. The comments about how the payables are more than the receivables. The
do you know that even with this small business loan you acquired you’re still going to drown in debt unless you figure out how to acquire more business?
The
you need to come up with a marketing plan different than everyone else so you’ll attract more customers
.

And then he’ll start his spiel. How I need to be more active on social media. How Internet orders are huge these days and where the bakery can find longevity and success. Get enough online orders, up the demand for my product in surrounding cities, sell franchise opportunities to service those demands, then sit back and reap the rewards.

Doesn’t he see I’m doing everything I can? That I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into my dream since breaking up with Mitch? Not only to prove to myself that it was the right decision, but probably more so to prove to everyone else that it was. That I can make it on my own. Without him or his family name or their bank accounts full of money. That none of that defines
me
.

And so I keep my head down, add the pearl lacing around the edge of the cupcake I’m decorating (for a wedding no less) while intermittently glancing to the foot traffic outside, hoping they’ll stop in and buy a cupcake.

Or several dozen.

Because his groan is only going to get louder the deeper he gets into the mess I’ve made of the spreadsheet his number-crunching brain deems easy. His columns, rows, and formulas with symbols that make no sense to me. I’ve got more important things to do than stress over adding numbers into the sheet.

Like running all aspects of the business he’s currently—and deservedly—bitching about.

“Saylor?”

The change in his tone has me lifting my head to look through the open doorway where he stands watching me. The look in his aqua-blue eyes is full of confusion and what I think is anger. There’s something in his hand I can’t quite see.

Crap.
What did I do now
?

“Did that asshole seriously have the audacity to invite you to his wedding?”

I slowly set the piping tube down and brace my hands on the butcher block in front of me in preparation for Ryder’s protective older-brother gene to kick in. For the anger to come out on my behalf when he should be the one pissed off after what Mitch’s family did to him because of me. And due to my own stupidity for not tearing up the invitation in the first place.

I’d completely forgotten about it.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I look at the champagne cardstock in his hand and remember the RSVP card I filled out in haste last month. More as an act of “screw you” than of real intent. Regardless, the dread I felt was more than real when my assistant, DeeDee, told me she mailed out the envelope I’d left on my desk. The one I’d meant to throw out but had become distracted by a customer and had forgotten all about.

My smile is tight as I pretend to be perfectly fine with having been invited. Because it’s easier to pretend than to let the tears of guilt burn bright over the fallout that has affected him as well. My sweet, gruff, overprotective brother who loaned me the money to start this business and then found out his largest account—Layton Industries—withdrew their business, his top source of dependable income over the past eight years.

I see the stress in the lines on his face. Know he’s trying to help me as much as he can and at the same time chase new clients to keep his consulting business afloat. Be the mom, dad, and big brother to me all in one fell swoop. But I know he hates when I thank him for it, so I focus on answering his question instead. I recognized the
did that fucker Mitch really invite you
? in his tone despite the polite way he phrased it.

“It appears so,” I murmur and worry my bottom lip between my teeth, attempting to divert the topic at hand. “How bad did I mess up the spreadsheet?”

“Screw the spreadsheet, Say. Does that prick really think that—?”

“I left him, Ryder.” My voice is quiet when I speak. A mixture of uncertainty tingeing its edges. “Not the other way around.”

“And for good reason.” He grimaces when he realizes his tone is harsher than he’d intended, his own anger at Mitch shining through. “Look. I know it’s been hard for you. You basically had to start all over. A new place to live, your friends all siding with him and treating you like you never existed, working endless hours in the bakery, being lonely . . . all of it. But you’re doing it. You’re starting a new life. Have a business up and running and—”

“Barely,” I mutter as I scrub away the frustration on my face with my hands and in the process smear icing all over my cheeks.

“It’s a lot more than most people would be doing seven months after a long-term breakup.”

I inhale deeply and nod my head as I pull up my proverbial bootstraps. This was my doing.
My choice
. Walking away when I could have stayed. Realizing that even though Mitch and I had been together for six years, the spark had died long before. Sure there is more to a relationship than just the
want to throw him up against the wall the minute he gets home and have wild reckless sex with him
, but then again, that spark was never there to begin with.

Growing up with parents who had loved so fiercely, yet constantly referred to the numerous goals, dreams, and wants they gave up because Ryder and I took precedence, gave me pause to what I’d be giving up by marrying into Mitch’s family. Because the compromise would have been solely on my part. Not his.

Regardless of my reasons, no one on the outside can fathom why I chose to walk away. I mean, he was Mitch Layton, perfect in every way imaginable—polite, successful, Ralph Lauren-handsome—and even with all that perfection, I can still recall looking in the mirror in the weeks before our wedding and thinking while all that was
nice
, I didn’t want to live a life always wondering if
nice was
enough
.

I pull my mind from the thoughts and look back at my brother, to the intricate and colorful ink on his forearms. Study the images that are typically hidden beneath the crisply starched dress shirts he wears for work as he lifts the invitation to read it again. “I’m sorry this affected you, too. That my breaking up with him—”

“I told you not to bring it up again. This was not your doing.”

“Spoken like a true friend.” I chuckle and pick up the piping tube again. More like my only one—and sadly it’s because he’s my brother so he has to be—given the circle of friends Mitch and I had over the years seemed to side with him after the breakup. The weekly lunch dates suddenly were rescheduled by text saying, “I’ll call you when I get free time,” and the monthly girls-only dinners for some reason stopped happening. Even my manicurist, who did Mitch’s mom’s nails, suddenly had no openings for my long-standing appointments.

“Does he actually think you’ll show up?”

“He invited me, didn’t he? Or maybe it was the bride-to-be who did? Who knows? Who cares?”

“Do you know her?”

“Never heard of her before.”

“Whoever it was probably just wanted to rub your nose in it. He’s arrogant enough. Thinks he’s such a prize. So why not make you worry and wonder if you made a huge mistake leaving him since someone else would snatch him up so quickly? What a fucking joke.”