Sweet Cheeks(49)

“Hayes?” Her voice is confused, the amusement it was rich with now gone. It takes me a second to realize she had no idea we were being watched. And I’m so goddamn self-absorbed, so mad at myself for wanting to do the right thing, that I forgot to tell her.

“Sorry. We had company.” I stop on the path and turn to look at her to make sure she heard me.

“What? Wh—oh.” Realization hits her eyes, a healthy dose of hurt too, as I let her assume the sole reason I kissed her was because there was an audience and not because I wanted to. She clears her throat and lifts her chin in a show of false bravado. “Yes. I know. I saw them.”

She’s lying. She wanted the kiss just as much as I did. The twirl of her finger around her hair and the stiffening of her body prove she did, but for some reason I don’t elaborate or correct her line of thinking.

Instead I stand there like an * as she forces a smile to save herself the embarrassment over thinking what happened was out of mutual desire. And that she threw herself into the kiss—and f*ck me, how she threw herself into the kiss—for no other reason than to help sell our fake relationship to the wedding party.

That in itself is comical because we both wanted it. There’s no denying that. And yet I don’t correct her. I don’t confess how sleeping in the villa last night with her in the bedroom directly across from mine was the sweetest kind of torture. Or explain how rehearsing the scene this morning didn’t make me wonder about and want her in every way imaginable. And I definitely don’t tell her how badly I want to drag her up against me right now and kiss her all over again.

But I don’t say a word because the next time I touch her, I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop with just a kiss. And I’m not sure it’s smart to open up that door until I can figure out what in the hell I’m going to do about keeping that damn promise I made myself.

“C’mon,” I murmur, turning around before I can see that wounded pride in her eyes again. The one I put there. “I’ve got stuff I need to do before . . . I booked you a private massage in the spa room down from our villa.” I glance at my watch to emphasize she’s going to be late. Hate myself for pawning her off so I can have a minute—or sixty—to get my head straight.

“I don’t wa . . .” Blue eyes full of unanswered questions meet mine and the words die on her lips.

“It’s that way.” I point. “See you in a bit.”

I walk off down the path, like the * I am. I tell myself not to stop and turn back. Not to grab her hand or open the door of the villa, lick that frosting off her chest, and slide down the slippery slope that would follow.

And it would surely follow. No doubt in my mind there.

But it’s not meant to be. Can’t happen. I’m here to make sure she’s okay and pulling her into any part of my crazy life would lead to anything but okay. So why do my hands falter as I slide the key card in the door? Because ten years have passed. Because I’m a different man now than I was then, and she is without doubt a different woman. She’s stronger. Independent. She’s Saylor.

So why couldn’t something work now?

Fuck. That’s the shit I can’t be thinking. The one thing I came here telling myself wasn’t going to happen. Because what was supposed to happen was that we were going to live in the same villa for a few days and remember old times. I was hoping to help her restore her confidence, prove a point to the Layton groupies, and then walk away when the time was up as friends—something few and far between for me these days.

How’s that working for you, Whitley?

Kind of hard to remain impartial when everywhere we go, *s from the wedding have stared at her. She may not have noticed them—so busy with her eyes wide at the tropical scenery around us—but I sure as shit did. I saw the packed tables in the back corner of the karaoke bar—eyes glued, tongues wagging, noses turned up. But they did take notice of who she was with. Then the halt of conversation and turning of heads as we walked by the pool earlier today—the floppy hats being lifted so they could stare a little longer from behind their sunglasses and grimace over that girl from the other side of town as I heard one of them mutter. And of course then again, in the bar a while ago. The pairs of eyes looking over the edge of menus, ready to whisper the minute I turned my attention from them and back to her.

But the joke’s on them. I’m not f*cking stupid and have played this game perfectly in her defense. Made sure I’m loud so it’s noticed that I’m here at the resort. Looked like an egotistical f*cker throwing my name around, when typically, I use an alias to go incognito so I can enjoy my time off rather than be constantly wary of the sly pictures taken on cell phones or time interrupted when asked for autographs.

But this weekend is for Saylor. Not me. My way of easing my guilt from all those years ago. My need to make sure she’s okay because as tough as she is, I can still see the hurt she’s hiding behind her gutsy fa?ade. It seems that f*cker, Mitch, has put her through the wringer.

So yeah. I’ll throw my name around. Take my time eating our meals in the wide-open bar. Sit beside her poolside and sip some cocktails. Go to the hottest spots in town when I know the whole wedding party will be there just to make sure there is no mistaking we’re a couple.

If I’m famous, I might as well put it to good use in her favor.