Sweet Cheeks(29)

Concern. Fear. Fury. Uncertainty. Disbelief. They’re all in his eyes, telling me he’s just as freaked out as I am.

But his voice is calm and comforting.

“I’m here, Say. Right here.”

His hands urge me to move. Lift me off the ground and position me to sit on his lap. Arms slide around me. Pull me into his chest. Against him.

My nose into his neck. His scent breaks through the fear. It smells like safety.

His warmth on my skin. My insides still cold.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”

He holds me in the dark. One hand smoothing my hair down. The other running up and down my spine. The heat of his breath on my head. The vibration in his chest as he speaks. The tremble of his hand as he continues to soothe.

With words. And by touch.

Sirens in the distance.

I’m safe now. In Hayes’s arms.

“You’re safe, Saylor. Always. I’ve got you. I protect those I love.”





I stifle what feels like my hundredth yawn of the day. My head hurts. My body is exhausted. My emotions are frayed. The dream from last night still heavy on my mind.

The sip of coffee scalds my tongue as I look around Starbucks. I turn from where I sit, my back to most of the tables so I can watch the ebb and flow of people approaching the counter. Followed by their trip to the station to doctor their java and then the frantic search to find a seat in the always-packed café.

Regardless of how much I focus on people watching, my mind still veers back to the nightmare I haven’t had in forever. It had to be Hayes’s words last week. His reiteration of the promise he’d made then, and the reminder in his note that he’d still keep it now.

Why does he think I need to be protected? Does he think I’m going to need it?

Typical man. Riding in to save the day when the damsel is not in distress. Or his to save.

It doesn’t help that I had a fight with Ryder over how Hayes came upon the knowledge of Mitch’s wedding details. How Ryder had come into the shop early one morning when I was out picking up some supplies and pulled up the details about the rain check reservations from my wedding on the computer. How he then gave Hayes the travel voucher information so he could call and arrange the travel. Our travel.

Or most likely his personal assistant did. The one he took the cupcakes to.

So needless to say he’s on my shit list. And conversely, I’m most likely on Hayes’s list since I had to ask Ryder for his phone number, then call him to politely refuse the tickets. His response of “The offer still stands,” not exactly the response I wanted.

That means the offer’s still open.

Even though I don’t want it to be.

Too much turmoil. Too many memories dredged up in such a short amount of time. No wonder my head hurts.

I take a sip. Jot down a few ideas for the store: new flavors, new promotions, a change up in packaging. Anything to try and increase the sales. When I glance up, my smile is automatic when I see a lady at the only other table past mine, opening the distinct pink and white box—with the Sweet Cheeks logo displayed prominently on the front—and pulling one of my Chocolate Goodness cupcakes out.

A silly thrill goes through me at the notion that someone is choosing to eat my cupcake versus one of the items in the Starbucks pastry case. Realizing I’m staring, waiting to see her facial expression when she bites into it to see if she enjoys it or not, I force myself to focus back on the notes in front of me. Just as I’m poised to write my next item I hear a comment behind me that gives me pause.

“Yes. Those are the cupcakes from her shop.”

“Pfft. She better enjoy them now because that place will never make it. Never.”

I freeze at the last comment. The one from the nasally voiced girl at my back. I blink several times, almost as if I’m trying to see if I believe what they’re saying is true when you can’t see words to begin with.

“How can it with a name like Sweet Cheeks?”

“Sweet Cheeks. Ugh. What a tacky name. Makes me think of . . . of unsavory things.” Disgust laces her nasal drawl and I sit in disbelief. In anger. In I don’t know what because a part of me wants to shove my chair back, turn around so they can see my face, see who I am, and let them know exactly what I think of them.

But the other part of me slinks lower in my chair. I want to hear more about what is being said behind my back, yet don’t want to hear any of it at all. The whole situation seems contrived. Like there’s a hidden camera somewhere filming my reaction and the joke is on me.

“Well, she seems to like it,” the higher-pitched, squeaky-voiced one says. I assume she means the lady across from me currently taking a huge bite of chocolate heaven.

Nasal tsks. “At the monthly luncheon the other day, Mrs. Layton told the ladies that her cupcakes were dry and crumbly and . . . and unoriginal. She explained she’d tasted them before the whole . . . situation.” She lowers her voice on the last word as if she’s talking about some huge scandal. “You know . . . poor Mitch. That Saylor put him through so much.”

Dumbfounded, I subtly shake my head and try to wrap my mind around the coincidence of this happening—me sitting where I am to hear this conversation.

This has to be a joke. A trick by Ryder to get me to go to the wedding because I feel like these two women have taken a page right out of his playbook.