I looked at Mitch and realized he didn’t make me feel how you had, Hayes.
The thought ghosts through my mind and I bolt up in bed. And then I hate myself when the room spins. But even worse is I can’t remember if I finished the thought aloud last night or if I had enough wherewithal to stop myself.
Shit. Shit. Double shit.
The refrain is constant until I remember that I didn’t finish the sentence. That I caught myself before making the monster of all mistakes.
Because that’s not why I didn’t marry Mitch. There was no comparison to Hayes then. Or Hayes now.
And yet as I lie back down to try and combat the drum beating against my temples, I can’t help but recall my first thought this morning: I wanted him to kiss me.
Was that why I walked away from Mitch? Did I subconsciously compare the way both of them made me feel and after seeing Hayes last night—after being reminded of that pulse-pounding, lower-belly ache that he made me feel with just a look my way—is that how I knew?
It’s nonsense. Utter bullshit. There’s no part of Hayes that belongs in my life.
Not his brown eyes or thick lashes.
It had to be the alcohol that made me think that.
Not his Hollywood life and glamorous parties.
It was the tree house. A step back in time to when the only things we knew about life was that it was simple and our lives revolved around each other.
Not his offer to help me now when he walked away before.
It was nostalgia. Déjà vu. Just a moment in time. A stupid thought that I’m better off forgetting.
Not the way he looked at me as he walked me to the door, made sure I got inside safely, before just staring at me. Eyes so damn intense with that muscle pulsing in his jaw that made me want to reach up and run my hand over it.
Stop it, Saylor. He was just being nice. Just offering to help you out because you ran your mouth about being invited to the wedding. He probably felt bad so he said he’d go with you.
Like travel to an exotic island just to help you out because he’s a nice guy type of feel bad.
But there’s no way in hell I’m going to Mitch’s wedding. I’m not desperate. I have nothing to prove and if I did, the last people I’d need to prove it to would be the Laytons and all their insipid, shallow guests.
Nope. I’m perfectly fine with my decision to walk away. And to tell Hayes thank you, but no thank you. Decision made.
Besides, it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again anyway.
“Thank you. Have a great day.” I watch sweet Mrs. McMann make her way out the door of the shop.
“The edges of this batch are a bit burned but definitely better since the repair,” DeeDee says as she walks out from the back, wiping her hands on her apron.
I sigh and silently thank the universe for letting the oven make it one more day, and not ruin another batch of cupcakes. “Thank God. Fingers crossed this repair holds us over because having to buy a new oven isn’t an option.” I cringe with the knowledge of how much a new one costs.
“For now, it’s holding its own—” The bells on the bakery door interrupt DeeDee, and her face transforms into a wide, goofy grin. I know immediately who is going to be there when I look over my shoulder.
And I won’t lie that my stomach flips at the simple thought.
So I turn around. A straight punch of lust mixed with surprise registers in a flash of a second when I take in the dark brown eyes, lazy smile, board shorts, and tank top showing off biceps that I have to drag my eyes away from.
And just like the other two times I’ve seen him in the last week, my body’s visceral reaction to him wars against my innate ability to make a complete fool of myself in front of him. How did this man, who used to know every single thing about me, who was part of almost every childhood memory I have, now cause me to feel tongue-tied and out of sorts?
Because I’m a dork. That’s my only thought when his eyes light up the minute they meet mine. Thud. My heart shouldn’t feel like it was jump-started and yet it does.
“Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here.” I try to appear indifferent, and I’m proud I don’t sound like the high-pitched hyena I’m sure most women sound like around him.
“Yeah, well, I would have stopped by sooner but I was busy helping my mom sort through some of my great-uncle’s things.”
He hooks his sunglasses into the front of his shirt while I tuck both my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and rock on my heels. I fumble with words and how to string them together because the way he’s staring at me makes it hard to do anything other than stand there.
Did he always stare at me like this or is it just now?
“I, uh, wanted to thank you for making sure I got home okay the other night. I was in rare form.” I shrug. Heat warms my cheeks. “And I apologize for anything stupid I might possibly have said.”