“Thank you, but it’s a private matter.” If I wasn’t already standing at full attention, I sure as hell am now with Jenna’s response.
Irritation flickers over Hayes’s face for the first time during the interview. I notice the break in his mask and hear the insincerity in his laugh. “It’s a private matter that was made public, so I’ll address it.” He raises his eyebrows. Looks straight at the interviewer. “Jenna and I dated. We broke up quite some time ago, before it was public knowledge. The relationship had simply run its course. I did not cheat or sneak away to a tropical island to have a secret rendezvous with my mistress. However, in the months following our breakup, I did happen to run into my high school sweetheart whom I hadn’t seen in almost ten years. She had recently split from her fiancé. We reconnected and feelings were still there between us. The rumor that I cheated on Jenna, or that my new girlfriend did anything unsavory, is a complete fabrication made up by someone to sell pictures to the highest bidder.” Hayes breaks his gaze from the reporter and looks to Jenna. His jaw clenches as he waits for her to look his way. “Isn’t that right, Jenna?”
She swallows over the contempt evident on her face. The look that says she wishes what he said wasn’t true, but nods her head in agreement. “Yes, that is accurate.”
“Thank you for being so candid, but I’d like to ask a few follow-up questions about the time frame—”
“Let’s not,” Hayes says with a flash of his smile before expertly redirecting the reporter back to discussing The Grifter. And a few questions into the redirect, Hayes glances over to me, and our eyes hold for a split second before shifting back to the interview. But I see the small show of a smile on his lips. Catch the see, I said I’d make it right in his gaze.
The day wears on. They get a small break between networks where Hayes chats with Ryder and Jenna busies herself with her phone, before they get a touch-up on their makeup and start again. The reporters change, but the questions remain the same.
I take phone orders. I make more cupcakes. All the while remaining present in case Hayes accidentally has a slip in his resolve and wants to talk to me. It’s after about the fourth or fifth interview that my phone alerts with a text. You can stare at me all day but I’m still not talking to you. 44 hours left.
To which I reply, Isn’t this considered talking?
The next interview takes place. Ends. The next set of texts are exchanged. Not talking. Just letting you know how it’s going to be.
How it’s going to be? A part of me likes this side of him. The other part hates it. I fire back a reply: Fine. I’m not going to talk to you either then. 43 hours left.
I watch Hayes take a seat for the next round, pick up his cell from the table, type something out, and then place it inside his suit jacket. Just when the reporter starts the opening question, my phone vibrates an incoming text. Good to know, but I doubt it. I’ll make you talk to me before the end of the day.
When I look up to him, he has a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Silently taunting me and I groan in frustration. The cocky son of a bitch.
You’d be surprised how much restraint I can show. I didn’t punch Jenna, did I? See? Restraint.
For someone who says he’s not talking to me, he sure is communicating. That tells me this silent treatment is just as torturous for him as it is for me.
I think of our Twitter exchange this morning. And smile.
He wants me to bring my A-game?
I’ll bring it all right.
“I’m gonna head upstairs. I must have left the notes for the new recipe up there.”
“Okay,” DeeDee says, her perma-grin of the day still plastered to her face. She’s a little star-struck and a lot fascinated with the exhausting press junket process that seems both monotonous and exhilarating. “I’ll just be here. Watching. Swooning. Secretly hating you every time he gives you that I want you look of his.”
I laugh at her comment on my way up the stairs. After a few moments, I find my notes, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and when I shut its door, Hayes is standing on the other side of it.
His presence is undeniable. Eyes dark with desire and his fingers fidget at his sides like he’s itching to touch me.
His cologne pervades my nose. The sight of him ignites every single nerve in my body. My nipples harden. My thighs tense while the delta between them aches. I open my mouth to speak—to say “hi, I missed you, screw the forty-something hours we have left”—but the ever-so-subtle curl of the side of his mouth stops me.
Reminds me.
Prevents me.
Tells me he wants to prove me wrong.
I bite my tongue. The amused curiosity in his eyes asks me if I remember my text swore I wouldn’t speak.