Night Shift 2 Page 16

  I slam the piping bag down for emphasis. A huge blob of the teal-colored frosting shoots out from the force and squirts across the distance onto the butcher block. Pissed and embarrassed, I know this whole discussion is on me since I didn’t bother to hide the invitation. And wasn’t it just my luck that it was Ryder of all people who noticed the detail of the missing reply card? There’s nothing I can do about it now except hang my head for a moment, draw in a deep breath, and tell myself it’s okay to feel a bit unhinged. That leaving the life I once had and essentially starting over again would leave most people feeling crazy.

  I do the only thing I can and emit a long, guttural laugh. One tinged with what sounds even to me like a hint of hysteria bubbling up with it. I’ve kept everything in—the hurt, the uncertainty, the loneliness over a life I know I didn’t want but still miss the everyday comfort of nonetheless—for so long, that the laugh turns into a gulp of a sob.

  “Say.” There’s nothing but empathy in his voice when he says my name, and yet I can’t look at him. Can’t lose it when I’ve been trying so hard to keep everything together to prove to everyone, including my brother, that I made the best decision.

  “No. I’m okay.” I clear my throat. Focus on scrubbing the colored icing from the surface of the countertop until the tears welling in my eyes abate. Wait for him to say more. Know he wants to. And yet when only silence weighs down the air around us, I’m forced to look up.

  Ryder’s head is angled to the side as he stares at me with compassion in his gaze when he normally panics at the first sign of tears.

  “You didn’t make a mistake. Not that I can see.” I appreciate the show of solidarity. His belief in my decision. But he’s my brother. He has to say it.

  “Thank you. Just forget about it, okay? Filling out the RSVP card was a moment of stupidity on my part. What I really need to do is get back to work. The clock is ticking, and these cupcakes need frosting.” I pick up the piping tube without looking at him, survey the hundred cupcakes left to ice, and appreciate the need to focus on getting them done and delivered rather than Mitch and his copycat wedding.

  My wedding.

  Thankfully Ryder leaves me be and returns to the little alcove off from where I’m working in the kitchen. A heavy sigh of discord still comes every couple minutes when he finds something else I must have done wrong on the little spreadsheet he made me. But there is definitely a reason he’s the numbers guy between the two of us and I bake for a living.

  I decorate to the beat of the music. A little Maroon 5 to lighten my mood as I add designs to cupcake after cupcake, stopping after every ten or so to flex my hands and stretch my fingers when they cramp. My mind veers to Mitch. I can’t help it. It’s almost as if it would be easier for people to understand if there was some huge smoking gun that ended our relationship, but there wasn’t.

  He was perfect in every way. Polite. Successful. Kind. You name every characteristic of who you’d want to marry, and his country club mug shot would be posted right beside it.

  But too much perfection is sometimes a bad thing. Especially when I’m far from perfect. How did I ever think I could marry him and live up to his and his family’s ridiculous societal standards and ideals of what is expected of a wife?

  We were the classic case of it’s not you, it’s me. And I wear the big shiny badge taking the blame on that like there is no tomorrow.

  But as perfect as he was, there had been a lack of passion. And not just the kind that happens when you’ve been with someone for years, but rather the kind that never was there to begin with. The kind I overlooked from day one because if a guy treats you as well as Mitch treated me, and is as good of a catch as our friends with wide-eyes full of jealousy kept telling me he was, then you’re supposed to overlook that, right?

  But there was more than that. He never understood why I’d prefer to be up to my elbows in a vat of cake batter with pink frosting smeared in my hair, rather than with the Junior League celebrating the coming of spring at some kind of social event that was more of an excuse to buy a fancy new dress and red-soled shoes. Tea with his mother—where she talked endlessly about superficial topics—was enough to bore me to sleep, but spending a few hours volunteering at the local ASPCA, cleaning dog kennels and giving extra attention to the lonely fur-babies, was an afternoon well spent.

  Because God forbid we had a dog of our own. To Mitch, dogs meant fur, and fur meant mess, and I was already messy enough with my frosting and sprinkles for him.

  It wasn’t the difference in our upbringings, because opposites often attract, but rather it was so much more of day-to-day wants and needs.

  His want for me to stay at home rather than work, versus my need to go out and create something for my own self-satisfaction. Our weekly bout of scheduled sex got the job done but never fulfilled that need within me to have the earth-shattering orgasm some of my girlfriends had bragged about. That want within me to smile automatically when I received a midday text from him rather than cringe wondering what I had done wrong this time.

  I shake my head and recall the day the realization hit me out of nowhere. I was spending so much time obsessing about every single detail of our wedding, trying to make everything perfect, because if the wedding was perfect then the marriage was going to be too, right?

  However, I wasn’t blind to my own bullshit. I had been so focused on wedding favors and lace and veil length that when I had a day to sit and do nothing while Mitch was off on one of his boys’ country club weekends, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

  “A part of me—one I’m really hating right now—thinks you’re brilliant.”

  Ryder’s words pull me from the same thoughts that have run a marathon in my head over the past six months. I stand tall and arch my back to stretch out the tight muscles caused by leaning over cupcakes and look toward him. My smile comes easily for the first time in the past hour. “It took you, what? Almost twenty-eight years to figure out what I’ve known all along—that I’m the smarter one?”

  “Dream on.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “For the record, I still think your idea is horrible, but at the same time I think you’re onto something.”

  Impatient for him to explain—since he always seems to take the meandering route to his point—I bite back my request for him to clarify. “About?”

  “You’ve had the business for what? Ten months now?”

  “Since it’s officially been up and running here at the store, more like eight. Why? What am I missing?” I set the piping bag down and lean back against the counter behind me.

  “During that time, has it ever crossed your mind that the machine that is the Layton family may be influencing your sales?” I chortle out a laugh, immediately discrediting him. “No. I’m serious, Say. I know this is a big town and it’s just one family, but they are well known around here. Mitch’s uncle is a congressman and his father owns half the town. I think it makes more sense than not that they—”

  “I doubt the Laytons are making a point of their busy lives to sabotage Sweet Cheeks. They’ve got small countries to run or something.”

  “That’s not what I’m implying.”

  “Get to the point then.” Patience. Gone.

  “All I’m saying is when there’s a break-up, people back away from the person they think is to blame, right? They typically side with the one they feel has been wronged.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “Should I assume you’re referring to me as being the one to blame?” Crossing my arms, I hate that his comment miffs me.

  “Yes. And no.” He takes a step closer and dips a finger in one of my empty frosting tubs and licks the dab. “Mitch’s friends have already proven to be shallow and judgmental. Proof being the way they basically cut you out of their lives after you broke it off. So . . . what if we turn the tide?”

  “Dude. I love you. I’m sure you have a point to make. But, seriously? I’m not following your reasoning a
nd have what feels like a million cupcakes left to frost, so can you please get to whatever you’re getting to so I can finish them?”

  “It’s all about perception.”

  I snort and roll my eyes at him. “And how is whatever brilliant thing I said going to make my business suddenly successful by changing the perception of my ex-friends? After how they’ve treated me, I never really want to be friends with them again anyway.”

  “Just hear me out.” He holds his hands up in front of him. His chill out, Saylor look is on his face. “Let’s say you do show up at the wedding with someone who is better looking, more influential, more something in their eyes than their precious friend Mitch. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’d look at you in a different light.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I sputter the words out and immediately chastise myself for automatically defending the very people who hurt me.

  “To us it is, yes. We were taught not to pledge allegiance to the friend with the most money but after how they’ve acted, it seems they do.”

  “Fine. Sure. If that’s the case, then it’s a good thing I no longer associate with them.” I turn my attention back to the cupcakes, not wanting to waste another thought on them.

  “You’re completely missing what I’m saying.”

  “Then just say it.”

  “I think you should go to the wedding.” He smacks his hands on the butcher block for emphasis. “Walk in there with your head held high and act like leaving Mitch was the best damn decision you’ve ever made, even if seeing him feels like you’ve been punched in the gut. The fact that you’ve traveled thousands of miles and have enough balls to be there should make a huge statement in itself without you ever having said a word.”

  He’s lost it. Now he agrees with my haste-filled action of RSVPing and thinks I should actually follow through with it. “You forgot one thing. I don’t have balls.” I try to lighten the mood. Derail the topic.

  “Hardy har har. C’mon, I’m being serious.”

  I should have known my brother wouldn’t let this go. “So, what? You think that by me showing them I’m more confident, they’re going to somehow support the business? It’s not like baking cupcakes is solving the world hunger crisis or anything. That’s a huge stretch.”

  “Possibly. Possibly not. But if you left the golden boy and are no worse for the wear and actually have the guts to show up at the wedding, you sure as hell know they’re all going to wonder what you know that they don’t.”

  “For the record I still think you’re crazy, Ry, but thank God, I’m not looking at the world through their snob-colored glasses either.”

  He flashes me the same cocky grin he has since childhood. “Just think of it this way: if they see you with this newfound confidence, they’ll think the bakery is rolling in the dough. Pun intended,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows as I roll my eyes. “Being the shallow assholes they are, they’ll sniff the proverbial money in the air and think they need to try out your new shop to see what has changed in you.”

  We stare at each other across the table. His eyes search to see if I agree with what he’s saying. And I do see some merit in it. I remember the many times I sat at lunch with all of my then-friends and listened to them talk about so and so and how they must be doing well. The discussion would turn to maybe we should go see for ourselves.

  I can’t even believe I’m entertaining the thought. It was stupid in the first place for me to return the RSVP. I truly had no intention of taking the plane ride and showing up. If I’m honest, I sent the card hoping to make Mitch panic that I might actually attend. My theory being if he wanted to be a jerk by sending it to me, then I was going to match his jerkiness and send it right back. I never expected anyone in my very small and immediate circle to know.

  And now, because Ryder found out, this discussion is happening when I should be focusing on the cupcakes in front of me.

  “Possibly,” I murmur, breaking his gaze and starting the next identical line of piping. I’m mad at him for making sense and annoyed with myself for even entertaining this conversation. I shake my head and hide my smarmy smile since I just figured out how to put an end to this whole discussion. “You forgot one more thing though, Ryder. I’d have to have a hot guy who’s madly in love with me. Isn’t that what my friends need to see in order for me to even remotely think I can pull this off? You’ve seen my dating life of late. Netflix and Nutella are about as exciting as I get.”

  When I look up, I can’t read the intention in his hint of a smile, but something about it has me straightening up. Our eyes hold, his head nodding ever so subtly as he rubs his hands over his jaw line.

  “I can think of a few options.”

  “Don’t bother,” I huff. “It’s not worth having this conversation.” I bend back over, effectively dismissing the topic at hand.

  But he doesn’t move. Just stands there and watches me. And I hate every second of it. But I don’t look up, don’t say a word.

  Discussion is over.

  3

  Hayes

  “Do you know how much I want you?” My hands are braced on either side of her. Her nipples are hard and pressed to my chest. The cool silk of the sheets slides over my ass as I grind between the heat of her thighs.

  “Show me.” Tessa’s eyes flutter closed as her lips meet mine. My dick hardens. It’s impossible to ignore the memories of last night—her kiss, her moans, her nails—when this was real between us. Skin to skin. Without the merkin or the glycerin spray for sweat. Void of the heat of the lights or eyes of the crew watching us. Or her rather, because she’s definitely a visual orgasm.

  It’s Saylor. She needs your help.

  My next line falters on my lips. The words I know by heart escaping me as the text I received earlier distracts me once again. Tessa’s body stiffens beneath mine, her face twists in question, and I know there’s no way we can smooth over my missed line.

  “Shit. Sorry.” I sit back on my haunches and go to scrub my hands over my face but stop myself before smearing the makeup artist’s hour-long job creating my two-day-old black eye and stitched-up cut on my cheek. Instead, I scrunch up my nose as I look down at Tessa. Beautiful, sexy, Tessa who is sneering at me behind her dark lashes and thick stage makeup. Pissed because I can’t get my shit straight today. My concentration is continually hijacked.

  But it’s not like I don’t know my lines. I’m sure the director thinks I was out late partying and not studying the script for today’s fifteen-plus-hour marathon shoot. Just what I need—him to get pissy and do a million retakes until it’s perfected, which will result in one of Tessa’s well-publicized starlet tantrums.

  The criticism I deserve. The tantrum I don’t.

  The irony is Tessa knows exactly where I was. On top of her. Beneath her. In her. All night long.

  And if she throws a tantrum then what happened between us last night will come out somehow. She runs at the mouth when angry. And that won’t bode well for me and trying to keep a low public profile. Because even though this is a closed set, someone will talk. Talk leads to tabloids. Tabloids to snooping. And in my current situation, snooping leads to disaster.

  And as much as I’m taking the fall for all of the other shit going on—the tabloid accusations of cheating—I’d rather keep them to just that: accusations, instead of stated facts.

  Besides I fucked up. The thing with Tessa wasn’t on the agenda. We were running our lines for today. This sex scene . . . and one thing led to another.

  Not that I’m complaining because Tessa Gravestone equals spank-bank material for most men.

  But when I look down at her where she lies on the bed, perfect tits uncovered and on display—because her theory of if she bought them, then people should admire them—I just sigh and shake my head. Another apology on my lips.

  And as much as I’d like to convince myself it was the great sex with her last night and wanting to do it again right now has me forgetting my lines like a first year SAG
card holder, it’s not.

  It’s not the stress of keeping what happened with her under wraps or what’s going on in the tabloids with Jenna or anything else.

  It’s fucking Ryder. I don’t talk to the guy for over eight months and then all of a sudden we talk twice in one week. But it wasn’t plans we made to meet up when I finally head home for the first time in forever that have me screwing up my lines. It was his damn text.

  His simple request. The mention of the one person who both of us had an unspoken agreement never to bring up: Saylor.

  And fuck if I’ll admit that just seeing her name is the reason my concentration has been shot to hell.

  “Hayes?” It’s the director’s voice.

  “Yeah?” I look up, my mind pulled immediately from long, tanned legs dangling from the dock, warm summer nights making out in the tree house we’d long since outgrown, and seeing my name on the back of my letterman jacket as she walked up the sidewalk to her front door.

  Every person on the set is staring at me. Time is money. And I’m sitting here wasting it, thinking about way back when. Another life I escaped from but suddenly feel like I’m being sucked back into.

  All because of a simple damn name.

  “Sorry. I got distracted.”

  Tessa puffs her chest out—pink nipples on display—thinking she’s the cause of my distraction. I fight the roll of my eyes. Bite back telling her she’s not that great if for nothing more than to knock down that ego of hers that grows bigger every day.