Page 115 of Mixed Signals
I slip my hand down her neck to the center of her chest. My pinky catches in the collar of her dress. I spread my fingers out wide until I can feel the gentle pulse of her heart beneath her skin. “I agree to your terms.”
“Good,” she says. She lets her mouth brush mine, back and forth once. She tastes like strawberries and champagne. Buttercream icing. My favorite kind of forever. “Because these terms are non-negotiable.”
“Finally. We’re in agreement.”
She smiles into our kiss just as a tear slips down her cheek.
Relief. Pure, perfect happiness.
The best arrangement I’ve ever agreed to.
I grin and pull her face to mine.
“Finally.”
EPILOGUE
LAYLA
TWO YEARS LATER
“What is happening?”
I’m frozen in the entry of the kitchen, Caleb’s shirt skimming my thighs and a lukewarm cup of coffee in my left hand. He woke up before me this morning and delivered it to my nightstand like he always does, the crossword left waiting and a gentle kiss just below my ear. It’s my favorite way to wake up.
Well. Second-favorite way to wake up. My favorite way involves Caleb and his mouth tracing a meandering path down the soft skin of my belly, his hands pushing my thighs wide and his teeth grazing my tattoo.
Caleb turns halfway and glances at me over his shoulder. “What?”
Standing like that, I can see the picture that hangs over the stove. A cutout fromBaltimore Magazinewith one of the pictures they featured.
My favoritepicture.
In it, Caleb is sitting at that little table in the corner with a flowery tea cup in his hand, legs splattered with mud and dirt, face exhausted. But he’s looking at me with such tender affection I feel it like a kiss against the back of my neck. A knuckle under my chin. In the picture I’m behind the counter and he’s at the table. He’s looking at me like I’ve hung the damn moon.
I think I have forty-seven copies of that magazine.
I take two shuffling steps forward and slide onto a stool. When we decided to move in together, we didn’t choose his place and we didn’t choose mine. We chose a new house altogether, right behind the bakehouse in the middle of Lovelight Farms. Construction took a while, but the kitchen is huge and I get to sleep in a little bit later in the mornings.
And Caleb gets to walk me to work every single day.
I drop my chin in my hands and roll my lips against a smile. “Are you wearing a harness?”
He turns fully and I finally get a good look at the black straps over his shoulders. It is a harness and right in the middle of his bare chest is Poppy—the tiny little gal Beckett rescued and coerced Caleb into adopting. He told him she was supposed to be a police dog, but I can’t picture it.
First of all, I think she weighs ten pounds soaking wet. And second, I don’t think I’ve heard her bark once.
She is the sweetest little thing. I went with Caleb the day he met her. He got down on his knees and held out his hand for her, palm up. She took one look at him, curled up in his lap, and fell right asleep. They’ve been inseparable ever since.
Including, apparently, during breakfast preparation.
Caleb turns back and forth, Poppy safely strapped to his chest with a series of buckles. She tilts her head up and stares at him adoringly.
“What?” he asks. “Is it too much?”
I shake my head and huff a laugh. “Just enough.”
He grins at me. My favorite half-grin that makes his dimples blink awake. “Good, because breakfast is ready.”
