He left.
And I need to remember that. Need to not be blinded by the feelings he stirred up when I’m feeling vulnerable about Mitch’s wedding. I’m still recreating my life, and to some extent . . . me.
“So, uh, why do I sense that Hayes Whitley was more than just a childhood friend like you told me before?” DeeDee asks at my back as I wash my hands in the sink, attempting to refocus. However, the pounding of my heart tells me it’s going to take a few minutes.
I shrug in response and grab a towel to dry my hands on. “We dated for a while. Then he left for Los Angeles and I never heard from him again.” Why is that so hard to admit? When I turn around her eyes are wide, mouth opening and closing like she wants to ask so much more but isn’t sure how much she should pry into her boss’s past. Wise girl.
“That explains why there was so much sexual tension between you two. It was so thick you could cut it with a knife.”
“Oh Dee.” I laugh. Harder than is probably warranted but I don’t know where she gets these things from. “That’s funny. He’s definitely not suffering in the sex appeal department, but I think you need to step back from your romance novel addiction. Life is not like your books. Sexual tension can’t be cut. People don’t meet lifelong soul mates in grade school. And I assure you, the heroine doesn’t have an orgasm every single time she has sex with the hero. Okay?”
“But the hero sometimes pays for his cupcakes even though he’s told they’re on the house and then leaves a mysterious plane ticket on the counter before telling the assistant to wait and give this to her boss after he drives away.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out what she’s talking about until she slowly pulls a dark blue envelope from behind her back and holds it out to me.
“I think he still likes you, Saylor.”
“No. He doesn’t.” I protect those I love. Why do his words choose that moment to return to my mind? “I think you are both off your rockers.” I sigh as I turn the envelope over in my hand, disbelief owning my thoughts and the feeling of being handled fueling my temper.
I take a deep breath, prepare to be irritated, and open the envelope. Inside is a first-class ticket on American Airlines to Turks and Caicos. A paid-in-full reservation for the Seven Stars Resort and Spa under my name.
My pulse thunders in my ears. My hands shake. Tears sting the back of my throat. So many emotions—disbelief, anger, gratitude, irritation, everything—reverberate within me at the sight of these reservations and the amount Hayes must have paid in upgrades.
I move aside the hotel confirmation to find a yellow Post-It note in penmanship I know all too well.
Just in case you want to escape to paradise with me for a few days. It’s not to prove a point to them, but to prove one to you. You’re better than them, Ships. I’d love to help you believe it.
- Hayes
I stare at the note for a few moments and try to identify how I feel. I am so very grateful that Hayes is willing to take time out from his demanding schedule, if I wanted him to, and feel flattered he thinks so highly of me even after the past few days.
And I wonder if he remembers anything about me. In particular, how I hate to have my hand forced at anything. And if it is forced, how I’ll do the exact opposite to prove the point that I won’t be persuaded.
Kind of like how I’m feeling right now.
I look to the ticket in my hands. Know I’m not going to go. Can’t. The past is better left in the past. The bakery will survive somehow without it. So I try to figure out how to get his money refunded. How to thank him but at the same time pass on his offer.
And yet I can’t deny the feelings these little pieces of paper have filled me with: warmth that he’d even think to do this for me, disbelief that he has so much faith in me after how I’ve treated him this week, and peace by giving me the opportunity to make a choice over what to do.
I lift my eyes to see DeeDee waiting patiently and watching my reaction. Her smile tentative, her hope that I opt for the romantic happily ever after her novels provide visible in her eyes.
But we all know books are fiction.
The romance in novels is a crock of shit.
Sometimes the hero still leaves in the end.
And the heroine is once again left to pick up the pieces.
Hands.
His hands are everywhere when I don’t want them to be. Over my mouth. On my chest.
The bite of gravel in my back. The press of his knees between my thighs. His excited laugh as I try to jerk my head free. So I can yell. So I can bite.
The taste of fear. It fills my mouth. Owns my senses.
The sound of crickets. They seem so loud. Screaming at him to stop since I can’t.
The wisp of grass against my legs. Cold. Bitter. Deceptive. Hiding the jagged rocks beneath it that are biting into my skin.
Just like him.