Sweet Cheeks(51)

But he does care. The note. The ingredients. The cooking instruments. Ensuring the villa had cupcake trays and liners. Understanding I’m confused and need this to help me work through it. All of those things say he does.

Don’t they?

Check to see if the oven has hit temperature. Hands falter mid-stir.

I had to have misread him and his intentions. Had to have thought there was more to his touch than there really was, because afterward, he dismissed me without a second look. In fact he almost seemed irritated with me, like I did something wrong.

Ready to spoon the batter, I pick up the metal cupcake tray from the counter behind me and slam it down onto the granite top a little harder than necessary. The sound reverberates through the house but does nothing to abate my frustration. This is so screwed.

Place the cupcake liners in the tray. Count the rows. Placate my obsessive thoughts.

What if I’m wrong? What if Hayes wanted to kiss me? What if he shared in my curiosity and wanted to know if there was anything lingering between us so he took advantage of the moment?

And damn, what a moment it was.

But now I’m drowning in perplexity. In bewilderment. In the fear and desire of wanting him to kiss me again despite knowing that wanting more is only going to lead to getting hurt again. And in the confusion over how a single kiss from Hayes can wind me up tighter than a spring when not once in the six years with Mitch did he ever make me feel this way.

But Hayes pulled back. He erased the emotion from his face and walked away—again—as if I irritated him.

I spoon batter into the cups. A little more forcefully than I should. With each scoop my anger builds. My emotions wrenched open like a can opener.

Scoop.

What? I’m not good enough for him anymore? Not posh enough? Not pretty enough on the Hollywood starlet scale of beauty?

Scoop.

Well, screw you, Hayes Whitley. Screw you and your Academy Award and your walking shoes that you still seem to wear.

Scoop.

Tears blur my vision. Rejection burns brighter than logic. Hurt resurfaces when I force myself to admit that I knew exactly what I was getting into when I arrived here.

Scoop.

I should be mad at myself for not keeping a leash on my emotions. For not remembering how devastating Hayes can be on my heart. For letting the ladies in Starbucks and their catty comments fuel my temper so I screwed over my own sensibility and accepted Hayes’s offer to come here.

Scoop.

Just call it off, Saylor. Tell Hayes we already made our point today in the clearing—that I’m deliriously happy with a much more successful man than Mitch—and then hop on a plane. Leave all of this tumult behind and keep what’s left of your heart and dignity intact.

Scoop.

Get a grip, Say. You’re letting one kiss make you lose your ever-loving mind and jump to conclusions that are all supposition.

I blame it all on him. From taking the trip down memory lane with the old Hayes I used to love and then switching gears and having new experiences with the mature Hayes who brought me here. The one who makes unexpected observations, makes me laugh until my stomach hurts, and who doesn’t care if he’s covered in cupcake splatter so long as I’m not mad at him.

The one who came here to try and help me gain some kind of redemption and hopefully save my store.

I brace my hands on the edge of the counter, hang my head, and remind myself why I’m here in the first place. To save the bakery and to restore my reputation.

Not for the more than enjoyable distraction of Hayes Whitley.

When I lift my head, the distraction himself is standing on the other side of the kitchen. Shirt off. Chest heaving. Running shorts on. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw muscle pulsing. Eyes locked on mine.

My breath catches. At the sheer beauty of him. At the force in his expression. At the raw emotions rioting through me just from the sight of him. At how every single part of me stands at attention when his hands fist at his sides and his muscles tense.

Hello, distraction.

I hate him and love him, want him and don’t want him.

He takes a step forward. Stops.

I remind myself to breathe. To say something to break the hold he has over me. To ignore the sudden ache in my lower belly and that slow burn of arousal that coats my skin in goosebumps.

“I went for a run.” His words are strained. Hoarse. And yet I’m not exactly sure why he’s telling me the obvious.

“I’m making cupcakes.”

He nods his head as if this is a normal, everyday conversation. But it’s far from it if the way my body is reacting to every single thing about him can be used as a barometer.

My nipples harden and my mouth waters. My body aches in places I’ve never felt before as I take him in. The way he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. The fine mist of sweat on his chest. The flex of one of his pecs causes me to realize I’m staring. I look up and notice the barely there arrogant smile on his lips before meeting his eyes again.

“I keep telling myself that we can’t do this, Saylor.”

His words cut through the tension settling around us. Throw water on the sexual fire sparking between us.

And even though his words say no, every single thing about his body says yes. The predatory posture. The gleam in his eyes. The tautness of his muscles. Visible restraint that a part of me wants to test. I wonder how hard I’ll have to push before it snaps.