Page 77 of Mixed Signals
“Hey.” Caleb taps the tip of my nose, suddenly right in front of me. “Where did you go?”
I blink and set the parchment paper down, rubbing a palm against the tension pulling at the back of my neck. I don’t need to be thinking about this right now. It’s another worry for another day. A hill for Future Layla to climb. Right now, the only thing I need to be focused on is the interview and making this place look as beautiful as possible for the photoshoot.
“I was just thinking about flowers.” It’s easy enough to bend the truth. I was vaguely thinking about the flowers in the front of the shop, the massive canopy of peonies and lavender and daisies that Mabel helped me twist along the rafters. Now when you walk in the front door, it’s like summer is pouring down through the ceiling. Blooms and blossoms everywhere.
“Well, they look great.” Caleb leans his hip against the counter at my side and plucks a wayward chocolate chip off my parchment paper. “Did Mabel help you?”
I nod. Gus, too. A whole truckload of greenery before the sun was even up this morning. A thought occurs to me, a coincidence that’s been nudging at the back of my mind. “Hey, have you heard from the phone tree lately?”
I usually hear from Matty when news is traveling down the branches, but it’s been suspiciously silent the last couple of weeks. I don’t even know if there’s been an update on the rubber duck situation in the fountains.
Caleb’s eyebrows collapse in a heavy line. “No. Now that you mention it, I haven’t.”
“That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”
He nods and grabs another bite of cookie. He’s lucky he’s cute, Beckett would have gotten my spoon across his knuckles for that. “It is. I haven’t heard from Darlene either, and she used to be a twice daily caller.”
My suspicion deepens. “What do you think it means?”
“Does it have to mean something?” He shrugs. “Maybe there’s no news.”
I level him with a look. Oh, sweet Caleb. “Remember that time when there was a town-wide discussion about macaroni and cheese and Gus sent a decree that bow tie pasta was expressly forbidden as a method of distribution?”
Caleb chews thoughtfully. “Remember that time when Jesse ran out of cherries at the bar and tried to set up a phone-a-thon for donations?”
I snort. Beckett found out and changed the donation phone number to the local ASPCA when the tree got to him. I think they raised over seven-hundred dollars. “Exactly. So I don’t think there’s a lack of news or whatever interpretation thereof the phone tree specializes in.” I pause for a yawn, the back of my hand against my mouth as my whole body shivers and shakes. “It’s weird, is all.”
I’m exhausted. I can feel my pulse at the base of my spine, my body angry with me for all the standing and lifting and baking. I don’t remember the last time I stepped out of this kitchen, now that I think about it. Yesterday, maybe? The day before? I don’t even know what time it is—if it’s morning or night or mid-afternoon.
“Alright, sweetheart.” Caleb abandons the cookie crumbs and curls both of his hands over my shoulders. “That’s enough.”
I sway on my feet, oatmeal chocolate chunk cookies dancing in front of my eyes. “What is?”
“The baking bootcamp you’re putting yourself through.”
He stands to his full height, fingertips spread out wide. His thumbs ease back and forth over my collarbones and slip under the collar of my shirt, just barely. It’s a comforting touch, one that has warmth slipping over me like a blanket.Tall,my bake-drunk mind sighs happily.Good.His lips twist in amusement.
I hope I didn’t say that outloud.
“You’ve made enough food to supply a small army. I think you should call it a night.”
“It’s night then, I guess.” My bleary eyes scan my kitchen before looking back at the tall, handsome man holding me upright. “I was going to make peach dump cake next.”
I watch as Caleb’s eyes darken slightly, his pupils blowing out at the suggestion of peach cake. “Fuck,” he mutters lowly, a deep grind of the words between clenched teeth. He flexes his hands on my shoulders. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but forget about the peach cake. You need to get some sleep.”
“I just want everything to be perfect.” I want the people fromBaltimore Magazineto look around and see all of the things that make this place special. I want to be impressive. Memorable.
Someone worth sticking around for.
“Everything is perfect, Layla.” He urges me closer until my forehead tips against his chin. My eyes slip closed and I grab blindly at his shirt. He’s so warm. Like a—like a—like a mocha fudge brownie. I sway in his arms and snicker into the buttons of his shirt. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need some sleep. “Even without all of this stuff you’ve done, this place would look perfect. Let me take you home.”
“Should I hang some cupcakes up first?” I lean back and rest my chin against his chest, my arms looped around his waist. “To go with the flowers?”
“Now I know you’re delirious.” He leans back until he can thumb at my chin, big hand cupping my face. “No, you don’t need to waste cupcakes by hanging them from the ceiling.”
I squint. “Are you sure?”
He smiles. A small one. “I’m sure.”
