Page 64 of Mixed Signals
He grabs his bag of groceries as I lead him up the stairs. He’s warm at my back. Solid. I twist my key in the lock and usher us inside.
“For the sign,” I say. “Beckett and Stella showed me today. They said you helped. Thank you.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Caleb sets the bag of groceries down on the countertop and begins to unpack. Tomatoes. Rice. A couple of limes and a bag of tortillas that look homemade. My stomach gives an appreciative rumble. “I’m not sure distracting you in the back while Beckett measured everything counts as helping.”
I pull out a cutting board and take the produce to the sink. “When was that?”
“Friday,” he says. He tears open a bag of tortilla chips and holds one in front of my face while my hands are in the sink. I bite down on the edge, my bottom lip against his thumb. His breath stutters in his chest as he pulls his hand away. “When you showed me that thing with the strawberries.”
That makes sense. Caleb kept acting like he’d never seen someone cut strawberries before. He must have asked me six times to show him how I slice them for garnish. I frown, a tickle of unease brushing against the back of my mind. I’ve had men pretend to be interested before, and it’s never ended well for me. I know this is all practice, but I don’t want to be a … chore.
Caleb notices my fidgeting. He sets down the bag of chips and props his hip against the counter at my side, dark eyes mapping my face. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head and line up the limes on a clean dish towel. I nudge the water off with my elbow.
He’s having none of my deflection. “Tell me.”
I thought he wanted to be close to me, that he was making an excuse to notch his chin over my shoulder and press his body close to mine, watching intently as I sliced my way through a pile of fresh strawberries. I thought maybe he wanted to kiss me again, but he never did.
He hasn’t, actually, since that night in the rain.
“I thought you were making an excuse to get close,” I mumble, not quite meeting his eyes. “I didn’t realize it was part of a plan.”
He mirrors my frown and takes two steps forward, crowding me against the sink. His hands find the countertop at my hips, his arms caging me in. He smells like summer rain and fresh coffee. I want to dip my nose in the notch at the base of his throat and breathe deep.
“Do I need an excuse to get close?”
I shake my head. He fingers a lock of my hair, his knuckles brushing against my neck. I shiver.
“What is it, Layla?”
“You haven’t kissed me,” I blurt out. I feel like an absolute idiot, but he hasn’t made a single move to kiss me since our first. I peer up at him from under my lashes. “Did you—did the other night make you uncomfortable?”
He huffs a laugh and my stomach sinks. A sharp tug all the way down to my toes. I look down at the buttons on his shirt.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“Layla, no.” He nudges my chin up until I’m looking at him again. His eyes are gentle, a warm golden brown in the sunlight that spills through the windows of my kitchen. “If I’ve seemed uncomfortable, it’s only because I’ve been wanting—” He swallows hard, his throat bobbing. It’s his turn to hesitate.
“What have you been wanting?”
If he says he wants more space, I might walk right out my front door and keep walking. I don’t think I’ve ever been so invested in a man wanting to kiss me before. It’s an agonizing feeling, waiting on the ledge for his answer.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you,” Caleb says, his voice rough. My startled gaze swings to his. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you every single day.”
Cool shock melts into something liquid and warm. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” He drags his palm down his jaw and peers down at me. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He hesitates, just a moment, and then he leans down and nudges his nose against my forehead. “Haven’t you noticed? I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
I drag him closer with two hands fisted in the white material of his shirt. I tip my face towards his. “Then why haven’t you kissed me again?”
His hands flex on the edge of the countertop. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea, Layla.”
“Why?”
“Because every time I’m around you, I feel like I’ve got a balloon in my chest,” he says right against my temple. He exhales, low and slow. “Because I’m pretty sure if I kiss you again, I’m going to want more.”
My entire body flushes hot. Caleb cups my face with one shaking hand and trails his thumb beneath my ear. We stand there against my sink—held in the waiting. My heart hammers in my chest, my breathing uneven. I want more, too. The ghost of his kiss has been haunting me the past couple of days, warm lips and fleeting touches. I want to know what it feels like when his teeth find my neck. How his palms would feel on the bare skin of my thighs and the swell of my hips. What it feels like when Caleb finally lets himself go.
