Page 53 of Mixed Signals
I snicker and reach for the bread, unwrapping it from the paper and breaking off a wedge. Caleb closes the shortcake with a final look of naked longing and then pours us some more wine. We move perfectly around one another, his fingertips against my shoulder, the small of my back, the curve of my neck. He smooths his palm beneath my hair and twists the silk scarf I’m wearing through his fingers, dragging it across his palm and gently tugging.
It’s so easy being here with him. Sharing our days and watching the waves roll in. Toes tucked in the cool sand as the sun dips lower and lower in the sky, a blazing globe of orange casting gold in every direction.
It’s almost scary, how easy it is.
“So we’re halfway through our experiment,” he tells me, his mouth two inches away from my shoulder. I shiver. “How am I doing?”
I want to lean back in his chest and feel his arms around me. I want to slip my fingers in between the buttons of his shirt and watch his blush stain his cheeks. I want a lot of things, more and more every day.
“I don’t know.” I arch my eyebrow and break off another piece of bread. “You haven’t kissed me yet. I can’t make an appropriate judgment.”
The truth is I have no idea why all those other women let Caleb go. He’s sweet. Kind. Caring in all the right ways. He might not have kissed me yet, but I see the way he looks at me sometimes. The slow heat. The careful consideration. Like he’s plotting his path—every single spot he’d stop and worry over with his lips and tongue and teeth.
How in the world did I not notice this man before? How did everyone else let him go?
He gives me a heavy look, brown eyes heated to a liquid gold. “I told you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave my hand between us. “Fireworks. Et cetera.”
He stretches out his long legs and rests back on his palms, a secret smile curving his lips. He looks out over the water for a long moment and some of the heat between us simmers and banks. “Are you ready for your interview?”
I nod. The team fromBaltimore Magazinevisits the farm next week. I’ve been spending all of my free time organizing and reorganizing the bakeshop. Testing out new recipes. Practicing normal faces in the mirror so I don’t look unhinged in the pictures. “Getting there. I’m trying to figure out what to make before they arrive.” I pop a strawberry in my mouth. “I want to be impressive.”
“Layla.” Caleb laughs like I’ve made a joke. “You are impressive.”
I shrug and busy myself with stacking our tiny paper cups into a pyramid. “I know. I just—I really want to blow them away, you know? I don’t want them to think they’ve made a mistake when they arrive and see the place.”
I’ve seen some of the bakeries they feature in their magazine. They’re big and bold and beautiful. Custom light fixtures and hand-painted tiles and stoves that aren’t rescued from the school cafeteria at Inglewild High.
I’m still not so sure this whole thing isn’t one giant mix-up.
“Layla.”
I open another container and pluck out a blueberry, not meeting his eyes. “I’m thinking I’ll use edible flowers to make some custard tartlets. Maybe some macarons.”
Caleb’s fingers curl over my knee. His thumb presses at the soft skin beneath. “Layla. Why don’t you think you deserve this?”
“I don’t think that.”
He arches a brow. A gust of wind blows in off the water and a single lock of dark hair falls over his forehead. I hesitate, and then smooth it back with my fingers.
“I don’t think that,” I say again, not sure if I am trying to convince myself or him. “I just worry—”
Hesitation steals the words from my lips. Caleb cups his entire hand around my thigh and tugs me closer. “What are you worried about?”
“I don’t want it to be a mistake,” I confess quietly. He leans forward to hear me better over the rushing sound of the surf. I try to be brave. “I don’t want them to see me and think there is something better out there for the magazine. I want my bakeshop to be enough. I want to be enough.”
His hand releases my leg and his knuckles brush my chin. He tips my face up until I’m looking at him. “This isn’t just about the magazine, is it?”
It’s not. It’s every failed date I’ve been on in the past three years. It’s the eight months I spent with Jacob, trying to get him to love me. It’s my parents, who feigned interest when I called and told them about the interview, but then asked me if I planned on going back to school to get my Master’s degree. It’s my sisters who can’t be bothered to return my calls. It’s watching everyone around me fall in love and struggling at finding the same for myself. It’s every disappointment I’ve ever had, stacked one on top of the other like a trembling house of cards.
“No,” I finally admit. “It’s not.”
Caleb’s gaze is intent on mine. I’ve never seen him look so serious, not even when he thought someone was breaking into my bakery and he was thinking of using my oversized whisk as a weapon. “You deserve good things, sweetheart.” He swallows hard, eyes searching mine. “Why can’t you see yourself? Why can’t you see how incredible you are?”
“Because,” I say, my voice cracking at the edges. “Because no one else has bothered to.”
He rubs his thumb against his bottom lip, brown eyes darkening. He looks back out over the waves, seeming to collect himself before turning back to me. “You know you wear orange on Tuesdays?
