Chapter 8 Hayes #2
She stops to redirect a kettle corn vendor who’s testing the decibel limits on his Bluetooth speaker, thanks the cupcake truck for showing up early and nabs Benny a mini cake, and catches a kid before he darts away from his parents.
The woman is a human fireball—nothing gets past her.
I find it oddly satisfying watching her in action, and watching her laugh with my daughter.
Weird, right?
Everything is going great, and I’m happy to tag along, blending in as if I were one of these Star Lake residents. All good.
And then it isn’t.
A large gazebo looms ahead of us, where a band has been playing acoustic pop hits, and we almost reach it when a man peels himself from a blond woman.
He’s a tall gym-rat-looking dude. Hair a thick mop on top of his head. Dark five-o’clock shadow. Designer peacoat over a blue plaid flannel shirt.
I know the type. The kind of guy who thinks attention is currency and gets his sense of self-worth from likes on social media. Probably has an account where he posts shirtless gym selfies and talks about gains. Knows he’s good looking and takes advantage.
“Layla.” He grins, pulling the blond along with him. “Hey.”
My jaw sets.
She stills. One heartbeat. Two. The easy set of her shoulders disappears—a recalibration. She turns slowly, professional smile masking something colder.
Weary.
Leery.
“Blake.” Her tone is neutral in a way that tells me she cannot stand the sight of this guy. “Enjoying the festival?”
Blake? Of course his name is Blake.
Douche.
His gaze rakes over her—braided hair, boots, clipboard—with a familiarity that makes my hands curl. “Yeah, it’s not bad. Cute setup.” His eyes flicker over me, disregarding me as a threat. That’s how far up his own ass this guy is. “This the security detail?”
Security detail? Seriously. Does this piece of shit not know who I am?
My name is on a goddamn tent!
I am the Main Goddamn Attraction, For Fuck’s Sake.
Benny shifts closer to me, small and bristling. I feel her shoulder bump against my hip, and I put my arms around her as Blake pulls his companion to his side.
“You remember Dr. Debrick.” His hand slides around her waist.
Layla’s chin dips into a greeting. “Of course.”
“Figured we’d run into you here.” Another once-over as he skims Layla’s body with his beady eyes. “You look . . . the same.”
Was that a dig?
“Gee, thanks.”
Yup. It was.
“Small towns, am I right?” The idiot chuckles as if he’s just told a joke, scanning the crowd with a sneer tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, I don’t know about you, but Paige and I were just talking about dipping out of here next fall and doing a cruise instead.”
A nod. “How fun.”
He continues to ignore me while at the same time shoving his new girlfriend down Layla’s throat—it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain that’s what’s happening right now. He’s trying to make her jealous.
His dumb, raspy voice has a salesman glide I find irritating. He keeps angling Paige like a trophy so Layla has no choice but to look at her, what he probably considers a shinier, sexier, hotter version.
Idiot.
“Caribbean,” he adds, giving Paige’s waist a squeeze. “Or maybe Mediterranean. You know, somewhere not here.” He winks.
I want to smack him in his arrogant face.
Paige, for her part, smiles the way people do when they’re performing good manners and tolerating the conversation, at the same time ogling me and calculating what the relationship between Layla and I is, eyes scanning over Layla’s shoulder for someone more interesting than us to speak to.
I cannot wait to get the story behind this interaction. Until:
“Caribbean,” I repeat, bored. “Sounds wet.”
Blake blinks. Remembers himself. “Hi, I’m Blake.” He thrusts his hand in my direction, and when I take it, I squeeze good and hard, enjoying the satisfaction of watching him wince.
He pulls his palm back, shaking the nerve ending alive behind his back.
“Hayes Fielder.”
“Right! That’s the name I was looking for.” He snaps his fingers. “I knew you looked familiar. Hired help today, eh? The NFL let you off the leash with Layla here as your handler?”
Handler?
Fuck you, asshole . . .
“Not at all.” I take Layla by the hand and pull her into me, the same way Douche is doing with his date. “I came to Star Lake because I missed her so much. Haven’t seen her in two weeks, she’s been so busy with festival planning and shit.”
I kiss the top of her head for added effect.
Layla doesn’t miss a beat. Relief flashes so quick I almost doubt it, then she slides her palm over my chest, patting me over the heart.
“He’s hopeless,” she tells Blake, all airy patience. “Can’t resist kettle corn and quality time.”
Benny—not to be left out, rolls her eyes. “These two can’t keep their hands off each other, I swear.” She gags.
Blake’s smile goes brittle. “Wow. Congrats.” He clears his throat. “I had no idea.”
Layla forces out a laugh that sounds so unlike all her others.
“How could you? I’ve been busy flying back and forth to Arizona under the radar—we haven’t told a soul.
If you know anything about Hayes Fielder, you know he likes to keep things private.
Guess the cat is out of the bag.” She presses a forefinger to her lips. “Shh, no telling.”
I wink at Paige and receive a calculating gleam in return.
“Actually,” Benny pipes up. “Layla is flying home with us tomorrow to watch my volleyball tournament on Tuesday, then they’re going on a romantic date night.”
That little shit . . . Her nuclear-level improvisation strikes again.
“Shopping for an outfit and then a hot date.” I wink again. Like, who am I? Fucking winking so often someone might think I had a chunk in my eye.
Paige’s brows climb. Blake’s jaw works as if he’s trying to unlock it.
My arm only slides tighter around Layla’s shoulders. “One man’s loss is another man’s gain, right, babe?”
Babe.
The endearment slips out of my mouth. It’s a word I’ve never called any woman in my life, ever—haven’t had one around who I loved or cared about, if you don’t count Benny or my mother.
Layla nods at me as her dipshit ex stares at us. Blake pretends he didn’t hear. Paige very much did.
“We should—” Blake starts.
“Celebrate our love?” I offer. “Great idea.” Before he can pivot and walk away, I turn to Layla. “Should we make out here on Main Street as an informal announcement, or wait so my high-powered sports agent can announce it to the entire world?”
She laughs. “Don’t you dare kiss me on Main Street.”
Ha.
Too late.
I don’t know what possesses me, but within seconds, I’m dropping her into one of those ridiculous, old-Hollywood dips you see in the movies.
Gasps pop around us like Bubble Wrap. A few teenagers cheer. Somewhere, a phone camera goes up, and Benny lets out an excited whoop.
I don’t go for her mouth. Not yet. I stop an inch away—close enough to smell apples on her breath, close enough for her to decide. Her eyes spark, equal parts scandalized and laughing.
“Fielder,” she whispers. “What the hell are you doing?”