How’s that working for you, Whitley?
Kind of hard to remain impartial when everywhere we go, assholes from the wedding have stared at her. She may not have noticed them—so busy with her eyes wide at the tropical scenery around us—but I sure as shit did. I saw the packed tables in the back corner of the karaoke bar—eyes glued, tongues wagging, noses turned up. But they did take notice of who she was with. Then the halt of conversation and turning of heads as we walked by the pool earlier today—the floppy hats being lifted so they could stare a little longer from behind their sunglasses and grimace over that girl from the other side of town as I heard one of them mutter. And of course then again, in the bar a while ago. The pairs of eyes looking over the edge of menus, ready to whisper the minute I turned my attention from them and back to her.
But the joke’s on them. I’m not fucking stupid and have played this game perfectly in her defense. Made sure I’m loud so it’s noticed that I’m here at the resort. Looked like an egotistical fucker throwing my name around, when typically, I use an alias to go incognito so I can enjoy my time off rather than be constantly wary of the sly pictures taken on cell phones or time interrupted when asked for autographs.
But this weekend is for Saylor. Not me. My way of easing my guilt from all those years ago. My need to make sure she’s okay because as tough as she is, I can still see the hurt she’s hiding behind her gutsy fa?ade. It seems that fucker, Mitch, has put her through the wringer.
So yeah. I’ll throw my name around. Take my time eating our meals in the wide-open bar. Sit beside her poolside and sip some cocktails. Go to the hottest spots in town when I know the whole wedding party will be there just to make sure there is no mistaking we’re a couple.
If I’m famous, I might as well put it to good use in her favor.
Besides, I’ve got my publicist on the ready. She’s already issued statements to the press stating I’m taking a little R&R after wrapping the last film to hang out with an old childhood friend. I certainly haven’t felt the normal hairs on the back of my neck when I sense an intrusive lens aimed in my direction, which has been incredibly freeing.
Kissing Saylor in public was a stupid mistake on my part, but hell if I expected any of this—the feelings, the connection, wanting to kiss her senseless—to happen when I offered to bring her here in the first place. But she was far too tempting not to taste.
I shake the thought from my head, certain that this little bubble around us in this all-inclusive resort will remain intact. And just as I know it will, I also know that our simple kiss won’t change the wedding party’s thoughts of her.
They’ll still judge her and thumb their snooty noses at her. And since she’s going to be judged, I’ll make sure they see the real her. The laughing, funny, spontaneous girl I used to know. The one whose friendship they’re missing due to their arrogance and exclusivity.
The irony? I’m realizing how much I missed out on it too.
Thank fuck I’m an actor, can play the part like nobody’s business, because I’ve just fooled both the audience watching across the green and, by the hurt in her eyes, Saylor herself. And maybe even myself.
They think I want her.
She thinks I don’t.
I know I want her.
I know I can’t.
Now I know why I’ve always compared every woman I’ve ever kissed to you.
I cream the butter and sugar together. Do it by hand and forgo the perfectly capable mixer sitting on the counter behind me because I need the physicality of it. The therapy it provides.
The comment repeats in my mind. Confounds me. If the kiss was for show, why did he make that comment? I’m so confused. And right alongside my confusion sits my sexual frustration.
The massage Hayes booked for me was meant to be relaxing. Meant to make me forget everything that was to come tonight with the rehearsal dinner. Kind of hard to do when each time the masseuse slid his hands over my skin, all I could think about was how I wanted Hayes’s hands on me instead.
Add an egg. Beat the mixture. Is he as worked up over this as I am? Crack another with one hand while I keep stirring with the other. Add that one in. Stir. A dash of vanilla. Stir.
Because since our kiss earlier, the only thing stronger than the desire owning my body, is the confusion ruling my heart.
The constant reminder to myself that the kiss was all for show.
For Mitch.
For his family.
For his friends.
Whatever combination of the three standing on the golf course while Hayes pulled me against him and kissed me. Senseless. Thoroughly. Handily.
It was all for show.