Sweet Cheeks(20)

“Yeah. Huh.”

“Do you care to elaborate?” My chuckle is strained as I try to figure what she means with the sound. Hell, more like as I try to figure her out.

“Nah. Just trying to gauge how big your ego is to think I’d want to see you ever again.”

“It’s obviously not too big, since I fit in the door to the tree house.” She fights a smile but fails so she looks back to the stars in the sky rather than show me I’ve gotten to her. Cracked that tough-girl fa?ade with the help of her ability to suck down the drinks tonight.

“You’re an *, you know that?”

“See. It’s that right there. That’s why you being the old you is what I need. You’re not afraid to call me out. Everyone else just wants to kiss my ass.”

“I’ve got a bunch more names I can call you if you want me to keep going.”

“You always were creative.” Her eyes flicker to mine and then down to where her fingers are peeling some paint on the floor beside her.

“A treasure trove of names, in fact.”

She completely ignores my comment so I adjust my tactics. “Lay them on me, drunk girl.”

“I am not drunk.” Her eyes meet mine, lips pouting, with a crease in her forehead. “Can’t a girl go out and have a good time without getting shit for it?”

She snorts again and it’s f*cking adorable. I bite my lip to keep from smiling because right now, I don’t think she wants to be anything close to adorable. She wants to stand her ground and prove to me she doesn’t want anything to do with me. But it’s damn hard not to react when she follows the snort by rubbing the back of her hand over her nose.

Because right now she looks like the pesky Saylor—Ryder’s little sister who used to annoy us when we were playing video games. The whiny voice and skinned knees. The roll of her eyes when I called her Ships Ahoy to annoy her. All that’s missing is the row of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

I stare at her. The memories clear as day. Ryder and I running and her chasing. The two of us tricking her and then sometimes letting her hang with us. Because sometimes she was cool. For a girl.

“You’re looking at me like that again,” she warns.

“You haven’t changed, have you? Still bossy.” I’m baiting her. Figure if I get that temper going, she’ll yell at me, and I can figure out what the hell she was trying to do tonight in the club. The extra swing to her hips and the added taunt in her smile wasn’t for nothing.

“Neither have you. Still causing trouble everywhere you go. I figured Hollywood would’ve tamed that side of you, and yet the National Enquirer seems to love you these days.”

I take her dig for what it is. Understand she’s trying to hurt me any little way she can. Shit, she has every right to. My ego likes knowing she’s followed me. My pride hates that she’s noticed the bad press that’s always blown way the f*ck out of proportion.

I bite the rebuke on my tongue. Fight the want for her to know I’m not that guy and confess the truth behind the bullshit rumors. And yet, I can’t. I may be having a good time, trying to help her out, and yet she’s a part of my past, and the rumors are trying to protect my present.

“Don’t always believe what you read about me.”

“No worries. I don’t ever read anything about you.” A hint of hurt. A trace of spite.

“I deserve that.” She’s lying. The finger twirling in the hair at her neck tells me so. I fight a smile at seeing the simple tell she still has.

“No, you don’t deserve shit from me.” And here comes the temper.

“Good thing I don’t want anything from you then.” Why does it feel like I’m the one telling a lie now?

“Then why are you here, Hayes? Why? Not the ‘in town for the funeral’ part but rather I’m talking about tonight. Why come to the club and more so, why are we here right now? If you want nothing from me, then why’d you bring me to the tree house?”

What the f*ck am I supposed to say to that when I don’t know the answer myself?

“I was at the club because Ryder invited me, and I wanted to catch up. I didn’t expect you to be there. Thought you’d be out with your fiancé. What’s his name? Mitch something-or-other?” Layton. I know the last name all right. Remember him to be a pompous prick when I played baseball against him in high school.

But let’s see if she takes the bait. Finishes the question. Gives me an in to open the door and start the conversation we need to have.

“Mmm.” That’s all she says in response.

I study her reaction. Notice the purse of her lips. The hair wrapped around her finger again. The sudden shifting of her legs as she fidgets.

I could press her right now. Push those buttons of hers. But there’s something beneath the surface I can’t quite peg. So instead, I opt to finish answering her question. Try to gain her trust so she stops hating me.

“And we’re here . . . we’re here because it’s kind of fitting. After the other day at the bakery and then tonight at the club, I don’t know . . . I needed to apologize to you. Explain why I . . .” I blow out a sigh and run my fingers through my hair unsure myself what I’m going to say. “This was where we always came when we needed to talk.”