Page 54 of Mixed Signals
I blink at him, confused by the sudden change of subject. “What?”
“You wear orange,” he says again. “On Tuesdays. Sometimes it’s just a scarf in your hair, other times it’s your dress or your shoes or your apron. Once you wore a bright orange t-shirt and these little orange shorts that I swear took two to seven years off my life.” He blows out a deep, gusting breath and scrubs his hand against the back of his head. “And you drink chamomile tea in the afternoons. You get a line, right here,” he says, dragging the tip of his finger at the corner of my mouth. “When you’re excited and trying to hide it.”
His thumb smooths over the curve of my cheek, down my jaw to the soft, secret space behind my ear that always makes me shiver. He strokes there once and then cups my face between both of his hands.
“You made something for yourself here—out of an old tractor shed. Something incredible for the rest of us, too. No one comes to your bakehouse by accident and no one likes you by accident. I see you, Layla Dupree.” He says it so firmly, so resolute, that I can’t help but believe him.
“Clear as day. I always have.”
TWELVE
LAYLA
A storm chasesus off the beach.
One second Caleb has my face cradled between his hands and the next we’re fumbling to collect the blanket as thunder rumbles above us, thick clouds rolling in quickly over the ocean. Caleb grabs the container with the shortcake and holds it close to his chest like it's a state secret as the first fat raindrops begin to fall.
A clap of thunder booms overhead. We both freeze and look at each other.
Caleb’s mouth is set in a firm line, his shirt already starting to stick to his skin. “Make a run for it?”
I nod, the wind starting to pick up. I snatch the container of shortcake out of his hand and shove that in the bag, too, hoisting the entire thing over my shoulder. Caleb rolls his eyes.
“Give me the bag, Layla.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I can manage it.”
“I know you can, but I want to help.”
“I don’t want to argue about the bag. I just want to get to the car.”
The clouds above us settle heavy and dark and more than a little ominous. I’m embarrassed I didn’t notice sooner, but I was distracted by Caleb’s eyes and his hands and—
I see you. I always have.
How long have I been looking somewhere else when Caleb’s been looking right at me?
A bolt of lightning splits the sky right over the churning surf. It’s like Mother Nature decided to go from zero to sixty in the span of a minute.
“You’re right,” Caleb says. He bends down and bands his arm around the back of my legs, his hand warm against the bare skin of my thighs. He lifts until I’m slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour, my bag bumping against the small of his back. “Let’s go.”
I clutch tight to the sides of his t-shirt with a shriek.
“This isn’t what I had in mind!”
He laughs, the sound lost in the wind and the rain and the rolling thunder. I grin like a lunatic and wrap my arms around his waist as he hauls us back to the parking lot. I don’t know if I’m dizzy from the position or from the echo of his words. All I know is cold rain drops against heated skin and Caleb—his strength and his laugh as he runs us all the way back to the parking lot. He props me up against the side of his Jeep, fumbling for his keys in his pocket as rain begins to pelt us both, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. I brush it away and he smiles at me from beneath his thick lashes, small and shy and secretly pleased.
“Hop in,” he orders, urging me up, his body blocking mine against the worst of the rain. As soon as my door shuts, he jogs around the front. Rain drums against the top of the car, a heavy beat that drowns out everything else. When Caleb finally manages to slip in next to me, he has beads of water sluicing down his arms, his neck, the side of his face. His pale blue shirt is soaked.
I clear my throat and tear my eyes away from the material clinging to his chest. I can see everything. A lot of … definition.
I clear my throat again.
“Do you, uh, do you have any towels in here?” My eyes keep flitting back to him and his wet t-shirt. I’ve been hypnotized by his broad chest. Rendered stupid by flexing biceps.
He drags his palm over his face in an effort to clear the rain from his eyes and blinks over to me, his gaze snagging on the collar of my dress. His cheeks flare a brilliant, burning red and he looks away, his eyes finding the dash and holding there like his radio has just exposed the secrets to the universe. I glance down at my dress—at where the rain has made the soft white material almost transparent. The lines of my pale pink bra are visible, a tease of lace through the top half of my dress.
Caleb reaches blindly towards the back seat.
