My feet move in reflex, my eyes fixated on him—on everything about him—as I take the few steps down into the living room toward him. He’s so damn handsome, my breath catches.
Removing both the gilded lights of Hollywood and my veil of contempt, it’s impossible to deny how striking Hayes is. In so many ways. And seeing him like this—completely relaxed—I’m in awe over how the boy I used to love has become this man.
Because he definitely is a man.
All six foot plus of him is filled out now, firm and muscular. My eyes roam over defined pecs, sculpted abs, and toned legs prompting a memory of the skinny boy with two missing front teeth who used to knock on the front door and ask if Ryder could come out and play.
The smile is automatic as I see the scar on the right side of his abdomen, a jagged, white line barely noticeable unless you know to look for it. I think back to the brace-faced teenager who would just walk in my house without knocking.
“Double dare you, Whitley!”
I can still hear my brother at twelve years old. Still hear Hayes boast how easy it would be to clear the fence from a dead standstill. Can remember the shout of triumph as he cleared it, but then the cry of pain when he immediately lost his balance, and fell onto the jagged rock on the other side. Then the concern on my mom’s face as she drove him to the doctor’s office to get the stitches that made the scar.
I study his face: the day’s growth on his jaw, the fan of his dark lashes against his cheeks, his perfect lips.
I remember those lips. Everything about them. The way they felt against mine. The way his eyes seemed to smile when they curved up. The promises he made me with them. The love he professed with them. The words he didn’t say with them.
I shake my head. Sigh. Pull myself from the memories that seem to come in a constant flood when I’m around him.
Maybe I’m just having trouble processing the teenage boy I once knew with this man in front of me. How can I still feel the sting of his rejection—after all this time—and yet have that sweet ache stir deep in the pit of my belly from just staring at him?
He shifts and I startle. Sleep-drugged eyes flutter open and look up at me. A lazy grin follows. A glimpse of the little boy shines through causing my heart to jump in my chest.
“Hey, you made it.” There’s gravel to his voice. Sincerity too.
“Just got here,” I murmur as he scrubs his hands over his face. I force myself to step back and create some distance. I turn and look out the window to the beautiful scenery beyond and listen to him shifting on the leather behind me.
“Your flight okay?”
“Yes. Thank you. It was my first time.” I blush even though he can’t see it and hate that I just invited him to follow up on my comment.
“First time flying?”
“No. First class.” I keep my feet moving. A way to abate the restlessness I feel from the possibility of running into Mitch, or old friends beyond the villa’s walls, and from being in such a small space inside it with Hayes.
“What? You mean Mitch never—?”
“No. We never really traveled. And if we did—”
“Wait a minute. You were with the guy for six years. A guy who constantly brags about how much money he has.” I turn and level him a look, curiosity in my eyes over how he’d know that. He rolls his eyes as he rises from the couch. “Yes, Saylor. I checked out his social media accounts. All the prick posts about is his privileged life with pictures to show what a high roller he is . . . So sorry, I’m a little surprised that he can spend a bazillion dollars on boys’ weekends to the Hamptons and San Francisco, and yet he can’t fly his fiancée first class. Call me judgmental. Call me a jerk. But that kind of bugs me. You should be more important than his boys.”
Hayes’s words throw me for a loop. His assessment of Mitch’s character from Facebook posts alone is dead on. An assessment I’ve only been able to see with the passage of time and distance from our relationship.
I feel a sudden sense of validation over opinions I’ve had. Odd that Hayes of all people provided that.
“Thank you.” My voice is quiet, eyes still on his so I see the moment they soften. I chuckle at a memory of something that bugged me but I never felt I had the right to be angry at because it was his money he was spending. “I used to call him Golf Boy. Tease him that he’d rather go on trips with his buddies to hit par than be home with me. He hated that nickname.”
“And I hate golf so no worries. There will be no golfing at all on this trip. Deal?” The grumpiness I felt over him booking this villa disappears entirely as his lopsided smile warms me from the inside out.
“Deal.”
“Sorry. I know I overstepped.” He shoves his hand through his hair and his shorts slip down a bit with the movement. “But the more I think about this whole situation, the more pissed I get.”
“Thank you, but . . . it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.” I chew the inside of my lip as we stare at each other for a moment.