Sweet Cheeks(50)

Besides, I’ve got my publicist on the ready. She’s already issued statements to the press stating I’m taking a little R&R after wrapping the last film to hang out with an old childhood friend. I certainly haven’t felt the normal hairs on the back of my neck when I sense an intrusive lens aimed in my direction, which has been incredibly freeing.

Kissing Saylor in public was a stupid mistake on my part, but hell if I expected any of this—the feelings, the connection, wanting to kiss her senseless—to happen when I offered to bring her here in the first place. But she was far too tempting not to taste.

I shake the thought from my head, certain that this little bubble around us in this all-inclusive resort will remain intact. And just as I know it will, I also know that our simple kiss won’t change the wedding party’s thoughts of her.

They’ll still judge her and thumb their snooty noses at her. And since she’s going to be judged, I’ll make sure they see the real her. The laughing, funny, spontaneous girl I used to know. The one whose friendship they’re missing due to their arrogance and exclusivity.

The irony? I’m realizing how much I missed out on it too.

Thank f*ck I’m an actor, can play the part like nobody’s business, because I’ve just fooled both the audience watching across the green and, by the hurt in her eyes, Saylor herself. And maybe even myself.

They think I want her.

She thinks I don’t.

I know I want her.

I know I can’t.





Now I know why I’ve always compared every woman I’ve ever kissed to you.

I cream the butter and sugar together. Do it by hand and forgo the perfectly capable mixer sitting on the counter behind me because I need the physicality of it. The therapy it provides.

The comment repeats in my mind. Confounds me. If the kiss was for show, why did he make that comment? I’m so confused. And right alongside my confusion sits my sexual frustration.

The massage Hayes booked for me was meant to be relaxing. Meant to make me forget everything that was to come tonight with the rehearsal dinner. Kind of hard to do when each time the masseuse slid his hands over my skin, all I could think about was how I wanted Hayes’s hands on me instead.

Add an egg. Beat the mixture. Is he as worked up over this as I am? Crack another with one hand while I keep stirring with the other. Add that one in. Stir. A dash of vanilla. Stir.

Because since our kiss earlier, the only thing stronger than the desire owning my body, is the confusion ruling my heart.

The constant reminder to myself that the kiss was all for show.

For Mitch.

For his family.

For his friends.

Whatever combination of the three standing on the golf course while Hayes pulled me against him and kissed me. Senseless. Thoroughly. Handily.

It was all for show.

I repeat the phrase. Tell myself I can’t be hurt by it because I knew it was going to happen at some point. A simple kiss to convince the wedding party that Hayes and my relationship was legitimate.

At least we got it out of our systems. But it’s definitely not out of my system—not by a long shot—because that kiss was anything but simple. It was a no-holds-barred, steal-your-breath, make-you-want-without-regret kiss.

Hence the reason I’m still so damn emotional over it a few hours later.

Sift the flour with the baking powder. Check the oven to see if it’s at temperature yet. Is he questioning himself now like I am? Wanting more yet not acting on it because he realizes it’s an all around bad idea? Add a pinch of salt. Or is this all a scene to act out in a comedic script to him? Lift my eyes and stare at the view beyond but not really see it because I’m lost in thought. Lost over everything really when it comes to Hayes.

I kept thinking that if we kissed under the guise of it being for onlookers, it was going to help rid the ghost of us from my memory. But I was so very wrong. Now I feel like it’s awakened them rather than bury them for good.

Stir.

He’s an actor, Saylor. This is what he does for a living. Plays to the crowd.

Stir.

He was just playing the part. It was a kiss. A moment. And then he turned it off like a light switch the second you were out of sight of everyone else. Just like he did when we ran lines.

Stir.

You’re reading too much into it, Saylor. But if it was all an act, why did Hayes murmur those words against my lips? Why did he hesitate pulling away?

A part of me thinks it was more than show. Hopes it was. Doesn’t hope it was. Jesus, I’m a mess. And yet I was there. I sensed his hunger behind the kiss, felt the intent in his touch, and saw the desire in his eyes.

Pick up the rubber spatula. Scrape the batter down the sides of the bowl.



Ships,

Just in case you need to busy your hands in batter.

- Hayes



The note he’d left me on the counter catches my eye again over the edge of the bowl. The one I had found on top of a stack of ingredients, bowls, and utensils when I walked into the kitchen from my post-massage shower.

If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have known that when I’m confused I use baking as my therapy. Use the comfort it brings to help me work through my thoughts.

No. If he didn’t care, he would have acted more like Mitch: focus on him. On his needs. His wants. Without a thought to my need for a mental recess.