“What the—?” I’m about to lose my temper. Just because the letters on the logos of their jackets belong to one of the biggest entertainment networks—doesn’t mean they can just waltz into my bakery and take over without asking.
It’s then I catch the look on DeeDee’s face—huge grin and excitement palpable—and then Ryder standing beside her looking just as excited but with guilt mixed in.
“What’s going on?” My hands are on my hips and accusation is in my tone.
“The studio rented out the space for the day. They gave Hayes the okay to do a few interviews here for his upcoming movie.” Ryder challenges me to argue with him but all I heard was Hayes and here and my heart leaps into my throat.
“He’s coming here?”
“Do you not want him to?” The smirk on Ryder’s lips is half-cocked.
“Yes. No, I mean, yes, he can come.” I’m ridiculously flustered. A million questions and thoughts run through my mind, but the one that rings the loudest is I get to see Hayes.
I don’t think of the crazy-ass press outside who I lied to when I said there was nothing exciting happening here. I don’t worry about whether the Divorce Support proposal is good enough. I can’t. Because my mind and body are focused on Hayes Whitley and getting to see him again.
Over the next hour, I watch the people in the bakery prepare for the interview. I rearrange the cupcakes on the staged table. I pepper my brother with what seems like a thousand questions as to how this happened, but of course, get very little out of him. I roll my eyes at DeeDee when she tells me she had no clue until this morning. Her answer seems suspect, considering her extra effort at cleaning up last night.
And my eyes keep flickering to the storefront, waiting, wanting, then waiting again to see Hayes. It’s been way too long. I miss him.
The photographers scurry like mice when a black limo pulls into the parking lot, and the person who gets out of the car is the last person I ever expected to see here.
My hands stop fiddling with my hair. My feet stop shifting in anticipation. That simmering ache over getting to see him again burns cold. Every part of me freezes when Jenna Dixon emerges from the car.
The photographers become frenzied. Their cameras vie for the best shot. And she stands there, quite the picture in her skinny pants and low-cut top with her sleek hair—smooth and straight, and perfect lips turned up in a practiced smile. Completely soaking up the attention she needs almost as much as the air she breathes.
I dislike the bitch instantly.
“What is she doing here?” I sneer, saying it loud enough that the network camera crew inside chuckle out loud, telling me they are more than aware of the situation.
And within seconds the chaos from outside fills the bakery when she opens the door and steps inside. The door closes. The sound mutes.
But her eyes find mine. Hold. And every part of me wants to kick her out. Tell her to take her bullshit lies and get the hell out of my store, because she’s not welcome here.
What in the world was Hayes thinking by setting up the press junket here when she’s taking part? Is he crazy? He knows how quick my temper is. Surely he doesn’t want me to give the tabloids any more fodder to print about.
The room falls silent and the tension stretches across the distance. I refuse to back down and look away first. I’m surprised when she walks up to me, the click of her heels on the floor the only sound I can hear.
“Is there somewhere we can speak in private?” Her voice is throaty. Reserved. Aloof.
Flustered but aware of the many pairs of eyes on us, I respond immediately. “Sure. Here. Right back here.”
I usher her into the kitchen, then point to a stool if she’d like a seat and just stare at her as the unsettled feeling within me takes hold. Her lips purse as she plays with the strap of her purse. She all but looks at her nail polish so she doesn’t have to look at me. It’s not hard to infer she has zero desire to be here.
“I want to apologize for the things I said. I meant no harm by them and—”
I clear my throat at the blatant lie. She shifts her feet and looks around the room. The pained look on her face at having to rephrase her apology that’s already hard enough for her to give is priceless.
But I’m not backing down.
While some good may have come out of the bullshit she handed me, it also caused me to question how I feel about being with Hayes. And because of that, let alone the myriad of other things she’s put Hayes through, I find slight enjoyment in watching her squirm.
I have zero sympathy for her.
“If you’re going to apologize, you might as well not lie in the midst of giving it.”
There’s a flash of anger in her gaze before she reins it in.
“I apologize for insinuating that you were the reason Hayes and I broke up.” She spits the words out like a selfish child refusing to acknowledge she did wrong.
“And?” I prompt. And I’m not sure why I do because I couldn’t care less what this woman says, and yet I’m curious how she will complete the phrase.
“And?”