I’m not gonna lie and say I don’t enjoy the view of her ass as she climbs her way up. Shit, she’s been shaking it all night for everyone except me, and I have a feeling even to spite me. It’s about damn time I get a chance to admire it without others watching my every move. And without others watching her every move.
So I stare for no other reason than because Saylor always did have a mighty fine ass. Way back when and most definitely now. It’d be a shame not to appreciate it. In tight black pants that cling perfectly to her curves as she makes her way, rung by rung, in shoes that have no business climbing up a tree, but fuck does it not add to the appeal.
I work my way up the rungs behind her, telling myself I’m just following her because she’s a tad drunk and it’s my obligation to make sure after all this time the old structure is safe. It has nothing to do with the fact that when I’m near her, especially in this backyard where we spent hours upon hours together, that I would follow her anywhere.
So now I’m climbing up a rickety ladder to chase memories down at two o’clock in the morning with my first love. I should be steering clear of everything I feel when I look at her: complicated, nostalgic, curious, turned-on, amused.
There’s the familiar creak of the door opening and then Saylor disappears into the darkness. When I boost myself up into the area a few seconds later, she’s on that very fine ass of hers with her back leaning against the trunk of the tree that serves as the center of the structure.
And I swear, when I see her sitting there looking around at the faded paint on the walls with a goofy grin—like she’s so proud she made it up the ladder with her shoes on—I feel like I’ve been transported back to our youth. To those stolen kisses and innocent hopes. To sneaking out on summer nights and having sex down by the lake in the bed of my truck.
And I wonder for the second time, what in the hell I’m doing here. How is Saylor sitting across from me with her wild eyes and a few leaves stuck in her hair that she doesn’t care are there and a flush on her cheeks? How this girl—definitely now a woman—who used to be my world, is making me question everything in my current life: the people, their sincerity, the chaos.
The answer’s simple: I owed Ryder big time.
But hell if I expected to show up to help Saylor, only to get that knocked in the gut feeling the minute I saw her in her bakery. Thinking your old flame will still look the same with her straight lines and tomboy demeanor, then seeing her . . . Curves, filled out, and sexy as sin was something I definitely didn’t expect.
“What’s your problem?” And her eyes are back on me, grin replaced by a sneer, as her question pulls me from thoughts I shouldn’t even be thinking. Brings me back to the present. To the lines I should be memorizing back in the hotel, and the shit I’ve got to do to help my mom tomorrow. To the life I have to get back to. But when I look at Saylor, all I think about is the here and now. And her.
“Who said I had a problem?”
She narrows her eyes, glaring at me through the moonlit space, and I wonder how long it’s going to take to make her not angry with me. She started off spitting fire at the bakery the other day to being completely apologetic and then to tonight . . . to I don’t know what she was trying to do. But the one thing I do know is Saylor doesn’t do something unless it has a purpose.
Question is, what exactly was that purpose? Regardless, it’s going to make repaying this favor to Ryder ten times harder if I can’t win her over sooner than later.
“If you’re curious about something, just ask, Hayes. Sitting and staring at someone is not polite. Or cool.”
Ah. There’s a glimpse of that fire and brimstone temper.
“I wasn’t staring at you.”
“Liar.” She snorts. “You kept staring at me in the club and you’re staring at me now. Most people would find it rather creepy.”
I laugh. Can’t resist as she rolls her eyes and crosses her arms across her chest. A chest that now is pushed up by the motion, and luckily it’s dark enough that my wandering gaze of her cleavage isn’t noticed. “Creepy. I’ll remember that.”
“You should. You do creepy well. Maybe it will help you get a part someday.”
“Perhaps. And I’ll owe it all to you. I’ll even give you credit in my Academy acceptance speech.”
“I’ll be watching for it. But, uh, if you weren’t staring, then what were you doing?”
Our eyes hold across the space while I debate the answer to give. I know I can bullshit her, which is probably expected, but for some reason, I don’t want to. Maybe it’s guilt over the past; maybe it’s the sense that I owe her some honesty. “I was trying to see how much of the girl I once knew is still there.”
Her head shakes subtly as if she’s uncertain she likes my honesty. It takes her a second to respond. Both of us treading carefully through the unresolved issues between us. “None of her.”
“I disagree. I see a lot of her.” And then some.