Page 55 of Mixed Signals
“I have this,” he says, his voice gruff. Tension fills the space between us until I’m restless with it, my legs shifting against leather. I like it too much, the way he sounds. I want to know what that voice sounds like against the shell of my ear, the space beneath. How it might tense and tighten and grit when it’s tucked against the soft skin of my stomach. Between my spread legs.
He hands me a black t-shirt, the material warm and threadbare between my fingers. I sit there dumbly with his shirt in my lap.
“It’s clean,” he tells me. “You can wear it over your dress.”
“That’s great, thanks.” I pull my scarf from my hair and drop it in the cup holder between us. My elbows bump into the window, the center console—Caleb’s shoulder—as I try to shimmy into his shirt. He huffs a laugh and then his hands are there, guiding the material over me. Arms, head, shoulders. My head breaks free and he lifts the hair from my collar, his touch lingering. He traces the column of my throat with his thumb down to the sleeve of the shirt. He smooths it down.
I’m not sure it was out of place to begin with.
“You look nice,” he says, voice hoarse.
“I look like a drowned rat.”
“A nice one, though.”
Our eyes catch and hold. His jaw clenches.
It is not a polite look, the look he’s giving me.
It would be so easy to close the six inches of space between us. I could twist my hand through the front of his wet t-shirt and drag him to me, the rain pounding down on the roof and the thunder rolling through the foggy glass of his windows. I’d catch his bottom lip between mine and kiss him like I wanted to in my kitchen. Taste the shortcake on his tongue and see what sort of sounds he makes when hewants.
“Layla.” Something low catches in the back of his throat. Something that severely tests the limits of my restraint.
I lean forward and nudge my nose against his. I want this—him—desperately. The hand that’s still pressed against me flexes.
“Fireworks?” I ask. “Et cetera?”
His laugh brushes against my lips. It’s a low and husky thing and it tugs right at the center of me. “Not yet.” He drops a kiss to the tip of my nose and leans back. “Put your seatbelt on, troublemaker.”
I pout. “You’re a tease, Caleb Alvarez.”
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye as he starts the car and reaches for his seatbelt. He stares hard at the hem of his t-shirt against my bare thighs. I’m completely dwarfed in it—the thick, soft material almost down to my knees. It completely covers my dress, making it look like I don’t have anything on beneath.
He heaves out a sigh like he’s endured something.
“Right back at you, Layla Dupree.”
“All I’m saying isthat vanilla is a poor choice.”
“It’s a classic.”
“It’s boring. I ask you if you could have one ice cream flavor for the rest of your life and you say vanilla.” I shake my head as Caleb pulls into my driveway. “I’m almost offended.”
He puts the car into park and grins unrepentantly at me. “Vanilla doesn’t have to be boring. It’s very adaptable. You can combine it with all sorts of things to make it delicious.”
It doesn’t sound like we’re discussing ice cream flavors anymore. Something in my stomach twists and then plummets when he says the worddelicious, a slow roll of heat through every inch of my body. Caleb’s tongue licks at his bottom lip and his grin grows, that damned dimple appearing in his left cheek. I poke him once in the ribs, quick and hard.
He flinches and slaps at my hand. “Easy. This is the first date we’ve been on that hasn’t resulted in my physical injury.”
I make a show of checking my non-existent watch. “Yet.”
“Here’s hoping nothing happens between here and your door.”
I look out the windshield. We left the storm behind us, but the rain has stayed close. Water rushes down over the windows, cloaking us in my driveway. It feels like we’re in our own private bubble, tucked away from the rest of the world.
I like it. I like being tucked away with Caleb.
“Question for you,” I say into the quiet of the car. Caleb is busy fiddling with the radio, pretending like he hasn’t been watching me out of the corner of his eye since we pulled into my driveway. I like his bashful approach to flirtation. I like that he has to work his way up to it sometimes. I like that he wears his emotions and thoughts and feelings so very plainly on his face.
