“I’m so sorry. I don’t mean . . . I shouldn’t have called with everything that’s happening—”
“Tell me about the oven?” She sounds so flustered, and because I know she rambles I cut her off, needing to get to the heart of the matter. My mind shifts from paradise to reality and work in an instant. My norm.
“It’s kaput. We had an order come in for a large birthday event and halfway through it started smoking and then there was a small fire and—”
“Fire?” My voice is shrill. Panic invoked.
“It’s fine. Ryder helped me sort it out. I’m just cooking from my house at night and bringing them in the morning so the pastry cases remain stocked.”
My head spins over how this can all happen in the short time I’ve been gone. “Dee . . .” I don’t know what to say. My heart and my reason war against each other over the next step to take. I choose the tried and true, the one thing I know will be there regardless of what happens. “I feel like such an asshole. I’m here traipsing around paradise and you’re dealing with all of this. I’m heading to the airport now to try and get an earlier flight out so I can . . . I don’t know . . . not feel so helpless and like such a jerk leaving you like this.”
“A couple of hours isn’t going to change anything. Ryder’s been great. He’s helping with the oven and dealing with everyone out front waiting for you to get back.”
“Everyone out front?” My feet falter. What the hell is she talking about?
“Don’t worry about it. He’s got it under control. You’ve got enough on your plate that we’re glad to handle it and help out.”
“Wait! Who’s out front?”
“The reporters.”
Reporters? “What reporters?”
“The ones that found out about you and Hayes.”
Huh? Why do reporters care about Hayes and me? Then it dawns on me. While I may look at Hayes and see the boy who stole cookies from me after school, the rest of the world looks at him and sees him as a celebrity. One who flaunted his name around the resort this weekend on my behalf. And apart from the hotel guests approaching him for autographs or photographs, I was so consumed with him I hadn’t given much consideration to the ramifications of being alongside him as a public figure.
How stupid was I to not think about this? About the outside world and the attention he brought us? Or how easily a photo can be uploaded to social media and shared thousands of times? All of it?
And by the sound of DeeDee’s comments, someone here might have done just that. Instead, I was so focused on spending every damn moment with Hayes, working through our past, soaking him up, and then falling more head over heels in love with him than I ever thought possible.
But this is a stark reminder how love can blind me temporarily to life’s reality.
“Okay . . . um . . . I’m trying to wrap my head around this. I just finished packing and I’m going to try and get an earlier flight and . . .” I stop, pinch the bridge of my nose and fight the sting of frustrated tears. “Hang tight. I’ll be home as soon as possible.”
We hang up and I force myself to take a deep breath. To not berate myself for having a weekend away from the bakery where I was able to not think about work, breaking ovens, or profit margins. And to remind myself that the R&R was deserved after how hard I’ve been working.
Plus, I closed the door on my life with Mitch and reopened another full of possibility with Hayes. How can I hate myself for that?
But reporters? Seriously? I guess I need to get used to this. The upside? Maybe I’ll get some free publicity from it for Sweet Cheeks.
“I don’t give a flying fuck, Benji. Are you fucking kidding me? You thought I’d be okay with this? Since when are you allowed to make these decisions without my input?”
Hayes’s voice breaks through the silence. I jump when something slams on the counter. Uh-oh.
“Do you get what you did? What I’ve spent the last what feels like fucking forever trying to get back? No, I don’t want to listen to the whys. Screw the money. Screw the NDA. Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter. None of it does if you just fucked it all up . . . I just . . . I can’t . . .You know what? I’m hanging up before I say something I’ll regret . . . Yeah. I doubt it.”
I wait inside my room and wonder what’s happened to get him so upset. With my own thoughts frazzled over Sweet Cheeks, I hesitate whether to go out and ask if he’s okay.
And the moment to approach him is lost when I hear him mutter again. “Pick up the fucking phone.” I can hear his feet pacing on the wooden floors. Ten steps, then a pause, and then ten steps back.