Page 79 of Mixed Signals
He shrugs and reaches for one of the tarts I haven’t packed in the fridge yet. I snap at his knuckles with a towel. “Ouch, Layla. Christ.” He holds his hand against his chest. “I came over to check in. I wanted to make sure you actually leave this place tonight instead of making a tiny cocoon on the bottom shelf in your supply closet again.”
I roll my eyes. “It happened once, and it was so I could keep an eye on my sourdough starter.”
Caleb freezes with his back to me, hunched over the dishwasher. He turns his head to the side until I can see his face in profile. “You slept in the supply closet?”
I cross my arms over my chest, prepared to defend my commitment to my craft. “It was the bottom shelf, close to the floor, and it was very comfortable.”
“You scared the shit out of me,” Beckett grumbles. “I thought you were a vampire.”
Beckett came in through the backdoor that night and I rolled right off the shelf. I think we both screamed at each other for close to seven minutes. No words, just incoherent shrieking.
Caleb finishes up with the dishwasher and comes over to me. He stands behind me and hooks an arm over my chest, tugging until my shoulder blades are pressed neatly to his front. I close my eyes and hum as he presses a kiss against the back of my head.
This is nice. I want to do this forever.
“How do you want to store all this food?” he asks. It’s not a sexy question, but it feels like maybe it could be. I don’t think I’ve ever had a man ask me what sort of containers he should use for cinnamon rolls before.
I give him some instructions and Beckett lends a hand. Together the three of us clean up the kitchen and pack everything away. I’m a little concerned about the state of my refrigerator, but I only need to make it through tomorrow. After that, I don’t care about how many tartlets Beckett steals.
Beckett disappears with a grunt and a wave over his shoulder as soon as the last tray is put away, probably off to seduce Evelyn in a field somewhere. Hopefully this time out of camera view. I lean into Caleb’s touch against the back of my neck and sigh. “I’m ready to go, I just want to look at the front one more time.”
I want to make sure everything is exactly as it should be.
“Alright.” His hand slips down my back and curls around my hip. “Follow me.”
He leads me out of the back door with his fingers tangled with mine, stepping along the stone walkway that winds around the bakehouse to the front. The path is lined with clusters of wildflowers, yellow and pink and bright purple against the weathered wood of the renovated tractor shed. When Stella bought the place, it was falling apart. I think Hank used it for storage. We cleared out the inside, made an addition of mostly windows off of the front, hooked up water and power, bought an obscene amount of paint—and the bakehouse was born.
Caleb’s hand tightens around mine as he looks at me over his shoulder, the light from the moon slipping along the lines of his body. Shoulders. Jaw. Halfway smile. It ticks wider the longer he looks at me.
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
He huffs and ducks his head down, guiding us carefully around a wayward lilac bush, one hand in mine and the other at my hip. He glances back up at me through his lashes, standing perfectly still as I drag my sleepy feet across the two stones between us. I bump into him, his arms circling my waist. My forehead drops against his chin and he laughs, husky and low.
“Do you trust me, Layla Dupree?”
I slip my fingers underneath the hem of his soft t-shirt until I find warm skin. He’s like a furnace, warmer than the humid night air pressing in on us. I trace my fingertips at the base of his spine and he releases a shaky sounding sigh that I like very much.
“I trust you, Caleb Alvarez.” My nose nudges under his chin and he slips his fingers along the scarf in my hair. “A lot of other things, too.”
“Oh, yeah?” His voice is gentle, amused, a low rumble somewhere above my head. “Want to share with the class?”
I rub my nose back and forth against his neck. I’m pretty sure he is supporting the entirety of my body weight. Again. “Not at the moment, no.”
“Maybe another time, then. Come on. Not much further. We’ll take a look and then we’ll get you home.”
Opening my eyes feels like a monumental effort. “Will you hold my hand?” My voice slurs around the edges.
“Yeah, sweetheart. I’ll hold your hand.”
He leads me the last three steps with my body practically plastered to his, my eyes obediently closed and our fingers tangled together. He stops me with a gentle touch against my shoulder, and turns me carefully on the biggest stone at the base of the stairs. The one I made Beckett haul halfway across the property with his tractor after I found it by the pond.
“Take a look,” Caleb whispers, and I open my eyes.
The whole place is glowing. Warm yellow light spills out from the windows and dances along the stones in a shimmering shower of gold. The flowers hanging from the ceiling look picture perfect from out here. Snow white wisteria and pale pink peonies. Thick green garland that twists around and around the thick wooden beams across the ceiling. All of it floats above my cozy booths and neat little tables, mismatched chairs and old patterned vases. Daisies and chamomile spill over the chipped edges of the colorful ceramic, a bundle for each table.
Magic. It looks like magic.
