“When I turned on my phone, I had a bazillion messages. The press knew I was here at this resort. Not a surprise since I’ve thrown my name around so that Mitch the Prick and his family knew I was your date.”
“Okay.” I nod my head. Try to think of worst-case scenarios. “So the press found out you were here. What are you not telling me?”
He inhales slowly. Averts his eyes before bringing them back to me. “They took pictures.”
My mind flashes to our time here. To patrons in the bar or at the pool with their camera phones sneaking a picture of Hayes and inadvertently, me. The thought doesn’t thrill me that I might be in some of those photos, but it’s not the end of the world.
“Okay so pictures proving what? You went with an old friend to a wedding? That can’t be all bad, right?”
“Saylor.” He shoves a hand through his hair. Shifts the balance of his weight from one foot to another. The man who’s always sure of himself is anything but.
“Hayes.” My voice is a warning. A just tell me.
“Some of the pictures are of us around the resort. The others are us in the ocean the other night.”
Thoughts connect. My spine straightens. “When we were skinny dipping?” I ask the question with apprehension in my voice. I’m already running the night through my mind, figuring out my state of undress in and out of the water.
He nods his head. His eyes are trained on mine gauging my reaction. “They’re grainy at best and I know that you have your suit on in all of them . . . but it’s hard to tell in the photos. They also have a few shots of our cupcake fight on the green. But those aren’t what—”
“Oh my God. Last night. There are pictures of us last night on the back patio—”
“No. No. There are none that I know of.” I sag in relief knowing pictures of us having sex won’t be going viral. “And I don’t think whoever was snapping photos was willing to weather the storm to take pictures of something they never knew was going to happen.”
“Hayes.” His name again. A question. A statement. A placeholder for the rioting feelings I feel but can’t express.
“If someone got pictures of last night, they’d already be sold and posted everywhere on the Internet and I’d currently be suing their asses, but there’s nothing so I think we’re good.”
“Okay.” I draw the word out again, needing more time to see what I’m missing in the big picture of things. My first thought is what’s the big deal if there are a few pictures of Hayes and me out there. We’re adults having way too much fun in paradise. Big deal. “Well, maybe there being pictures is a good thing. The studio wanted to restore your image, and now your fans will see you with the sweet, safe baker outside of Hollywood. You can’t get any more down-home, salt of the earth than that, right?”
“They spun the story, Say.”
“What do you mean, spun the story?” Dread drops like a lead weight into my stomach. Twists it.
“Jenna said that a reporter contacted her, fishing about why she’d been absent from her usual party circuits. Asked about the validity behind a rumor he’d heard stating she’d been in The Meadows facility and was asking what she had been admitted for. She said she freaked out and told him she’d only been visiting a friend there but he didn’t believe her. So . . . she tried to shift his attention away from her.”
“What. Did. She. Do?” I close my eyes, hang my head, and wait for the rest to be said. Scenarios run through my mind and none of them are positive. I fear what he’s going to say next.
“She leaked information. Said I was off in paradise with the woman I cheated on her with while she played the victim card. She said she’d been admitted to the facility to battle the depression she’d suffered from our affair.”
“What?” I laugh the word out like this has to be a joke. He can’t be serious. Because I just went from thinking so what, a few pictures of Hayes and me—childhood friends—having fun have been posted on the Internet to realizing those same pictures—completely innocent in nature—have been twisted with the help of Jenna Dixon’s little prompts to vilify me. I’m now the whore who broke up Hollywood’s cutest couple. Holy. Shit. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” And the way he says it—the tone—tells me all I need to know about how bad it really is.
I stare at Hayes but don’t really see him. I blink my eyes repeatedly as if the action is going to help me comprehend all of this and then I notice the defeat in his posture and that tells me all I need to know. It’s way worse than I think. The bottom drops out. Realization hits. And the bazillion images I’ve seen splashed all over the tabloids of every woman Hayes has been associated with since their public break-up flashes through my mind. I can only imagine what horrible things they’ve said about me. Hollywood’s cruel and unrelenting cycle of drama.