Sweet Cheeks (46 page)

And my eyes keep flickering to the storefront, waiting, wanting, then waiting again to see Hayes.
It’s been way too long. I miss him.

The photographers scurry like mice when a black limo pulls into the parking lot, and the person who gets out of the car is the
last
person I ever expected to see here.

My hands stop fiddling with my hair. My feet stop shifting in anticipation. That simmering ache over getting to see him again burns cold. Every part of me freezes when Jenna Dixon emerges from the car.

The photographers become frenzied. Their cameras vie for the best shot. And she stands there, quite the picture in her skinny pants and low-cut top with her sleek hair—smooth and straight, and perfect lips turned up in a practiced smile. Completely soaking up the attention she needs almost as much as the air she breathes.

I dislike the bitch instantly
.

“What is she doing here?” I sneer, saying it loud enough that the network camera crew inside chuckle out loud, telling me they are more than aware of the situation.

And within seconds the chaos from outside fills the bakery when she opens the door and steps inside. The door closes. The sound mutes.

But her eyes find mine. Hold. And every part of me wants to kick her out. Tell her to take her bullshit lies and get the hell out of my store, because
she’s
not welcome here.

What in the world was Hayes thinking by setting up the press junket here when she’s taking part? Is he crazy? He knows how quick my temper is. Surely he doesn’t want me to give the tabloids any more fodder to print about.

The room falls silent and the tension stretches across the distance. I refuse to back down and look away first. I’m surprised when she walks up to me, the click of her heels on the floor the only sound I can hear.

“Is there somewhere we can speak in private?” Her voice is throaty. Reserved. Aloof.

Flustered but aware of the many pairs of eyes on us, I respond immediately. “Sure. Here. Right back here.”

I usher her into the kitchen, then point to a stool if she’d like a seat and just stare at her as the unsettled feeling within me takes hold. Her lips purse as she plays with the strap of her purse. She all but looks at her nail polish so she doesn’t have to look at me. It’s not hard to infer she has zero desire to be here.

“I want to apologize for the things I said. I meant no harm by them and—”

I clear my throat at the blatant lie. She shifts her feet and looks around the room. The pained look on her face at having to rephrase her apology that’s already hard enough for her to give is priceless.

But I’m not backing down.

While some good may have come out of the bullshit she handed me, it also caused me to question how I feel about being with Hayes. And because of that, let alone the myriad of other things she’s put Hayes through, I find slight enjoyment in watching her squirm.

I have zero sympathy for her.

“If you’re going to apologize, you might as well not lie in the midst of giving it.”

There’s a flash of anger in her gaze before she reins it in.

“I apologize for insinuating that you were the reason Hayes and I broke up.” She spits the words out like a selfish child refusing to acknowledge she did wrong.

“And?” I prompt. And I’m not sure why I do because I couldn’t care less what this woman says, and yet I’m curious how she will complete the phrase.

“And?”

My phone vibrates against the counter. The sound fills the room as I stare at her. “Yes. And?”

She emits a dramatic sigh and glares at me. “I’m sorry for any trouble I brought to either of you.”

I twist my lips as I stare at her. Hollywood royalty in my tiny kitchen, and I’d
never
switch places with her for all the money in the world.

“Thank you.”

That’s all I choose to give her. Because while I’m not one to hold a grudge, I’m also not one to forgive blindly someone who has intentionally hurt those I love.

She turns with a flip of her shampoo-commercial-worthy hair and stalks out of the kitchen into the bakery. It’s not until she’s out of sight that I sag against the counter and let the nerves that quietly owned my body at what just happened take over. I blow out a fortifying breath, tell myself to get my shit together and be glad if I never have to see Jenna Dixon again.

However, I know how hard that must have been for her to do. Either that or Hayes threatened her with something . . . because I have a feeling apologies are not something she’s used to giving.

My phone buzzing again reminds me I received a text during that uncomfortable exchange. When I pick it up, I’m greeted by a text message from Hayes.

I hope she’s back there groveling for you to forgive her. It may not be sincere, but Jenna giving an apology is a miracle in itself. And yes—
surprise
—I am here today. Doing a few interviews. Setting the record straight on the things I can. But don’t think I’m backing down from my promise. No talking. I said ten days, Saylor, and I meant ten days.

My breath catches in my throat when I realize that if Hayes knows Jenna was in the kitchen, then he’s already here. And at the same time, I really hear the words of his text.

He’s not going to talk to me? He’s just going to sit there all day, be available to everyone else, cause a flurry of paparazzi with first Jenna and then him in my bakery, and yet he won’t talk to me?

I snort. Yeah, right.

Needing to see for myself, I head toward the café up front. When I walk through the doorway and see him, every part of my body reacts. My heart. My breath. My nerves. My libido.

And then they shift into overdrive the second he looks up from the person he’s speaking to and locks eyes with mine. I feel like the air has been sucked out of the room, but equally, I’ve been given air for the first time after being deprived of it. He grants me a half-cocked smirk, a raise of an eyebrow followed by an ever-so-subtle lift of his chin. My God, he is desire personified.

But damn him to hell because with his presence, my body comes alive. I want. And need. And crave everything about him. The emotional and the physical. His attention. His laughter. His next minute.
His forever
.

Time stands still in the seconds we’re connected, so much so that the moment he’s pulled away—a question asked to him by a guy wearing a headset—I wonder how I lived
without
this feeling. God yes, the current situation is a clusterfuck at best, and yet, it is worth it for this feeling right here.
He is worth it
and I marvel at how this connection between us can be so strong, so quickly.

But then again, hasn’t it always been there?

Because love is like magic. You can question it—how it happens, when it will happen, why it bowls you over when it does happen, and how you existed before it happened—but you might never get the answer.

Sometimes you just have to believe in it and its process.

W
atching him is torture. Hearing his laugh and catching his fleeting glances cast my way is comforting. That little zing of current when our eyes do connect before he returns his attention to the interviewer is empowering.

It’s like my body is plugged into an electric current with him here. Every chuckle is a jolt to my libido. Every smile causes a tingle through my body. Each dart of his tongue to lick his lips results in a surge of want coursing through me.

So I opt to decorate cupcakes at the front counter today, unwilling to be separated from him when he’s sitting here in my space. I feign indifference all the while paying attention. He’s charming and courteous and funny during his interviews. He pays close attention to the questions, thinks before he answers, and is entertaining. He also takes the lead, not letting Jenna say too much but smiling politely when she does, except of course when the inevitable question comes up.

The “I’d not be doing my job if I had the two of you together and neglected to ask about the state of your relationship considering the tumultuous rumors over the past several weeks. Is there anything you’d like to clear up?”

“Thank you, but it’s a private matter.” If I wasn’t already standing at full attention, I sure as hell am now with Jenna’s response.

Irritation flickers over Hayes’s face for the first time during the interview. I notice the break in his mask and hear the insincerity in his laugh. “It’s a private matter that was made public, so I’ll address it.” He raises his eyebrows. Looks straight at the interviewer. “Jenna and I dated. We broke up quite some time ago, before it was public knowledge. The relationship had simply run its course. I did not cheat or sneak away to a tropical island to have a secret rendezvous with my mistress. However, in the months following our breakup, I did happen to run into my high school sweetheart whom I hadn’t seen in almost ten years. She had recently split from her fiancé. We reconnected and feelings were still there between us. The rumor that I cheated on Jenna, or that my new girlfriend did anything unsavory, is a complete fabrication made up by someone to sell pictures to the highest bidder.” Hayes breaks his gaze from the reporter and looks to Jenna. His jaw clenches as he waits for her to look his way. “Isn’t that right, Jenna?”

She swallows over the contempt evident on her face. The look that says she wishes what he said wasn’t true, but nods her head in agreement. “Yes, that is accurate.”

“Thank you for being so candid, but I’d like to ask a few follow-up questions about the time frame—”

“Let’s not,” Hayes says with a flash of his smile before expertly redirecting the reporter back to discussing
The Grifter
. And a few questions into the redirect, Hayes glances over to me, and our eyes hold for a split second before shifting back to the interview. But I see the small show of a smile on his lips. Catch the
see, I said I’d make it right
in his gaze.

The day wears on. They get a small break between networks where Hayes chats with Ryder and Jenna busies herself with her phone, before they get a touch-up on their makeup and start again. The reporters change, but the questions remain the same.

I take phone orders. I make more cupcakes. All the while remaining present in case Hayes accidentally has a slip in his resolve and wants to talk to me. It’s after about the fourth or fifth interview that my phone alerts with a text.
You can stare at me all day but I’m still not talking to you. 44 hours left
.

To which I reply,
Isn’t this considered talking?

The next interview takes place. Ends. The next set of texts are exchanged.
Not talking. Just letting you know how it’s going to be
.

How it’s going to be
? A part of me likes this side of him. The other part hates it. I fire back a reply:
Fine. I’m not going to talk to you either then. 43 hours left.

I watch Hayes take a seat for the next round, pick up his cell from the table, type something out, and then place it inside his suit jacket. Just when the reporter starts the opening question, my phone vibrates an incoming text.
Good to know, but I doubt it. I’ll make you talk to me before the end of the day.

When I look up to him, he has a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Silently taunting me and I groan in frustration.
The cocky son of a bitch
.

You’d be surprised how much restraint I can show. I didn’t punch Jenna, did I? See? Restraint.

For someone who says he’s not talking to me, he sure is communicating. That tells me this silent treatment is just as torturous for him as it is for me.

I think of our Twitter exchange this morning. And smile.

He wants me to bring my A-game?

I’ll bring it all right.