Page 84 of Mixed Signals
“Noted.” His lips twitch and his gaze settles on the swell of my newly-stained bottom lip with interest. “I won’t keep her long.”
The backdoor swings shut behind us and he leads us down the same stone pathway we took last night. When he held me in his arms and we gazed at the front of the bakehouse like it was every dream I ever had come true. It feels more like a nightmare today. Like I’m wearing a pair of shoes that don’t quite fit.
Like I’m an imposter.
“Caleb.” I pull on his hand, sure now of his intention. “I don’t want to.”
He ignores me and picks up his pace instead. I huff and drag my feet behind him. I have half a mind to cling to my azalea bush and kick my feet. Maybe I’ll disappear among the branches and just live there. They can interview me from between the leaves.
I keep my eyes firmly on my feet as we round the front of the building and Caleb lines me up in the same spot we were standing twelve hours ago. He drapes his arms over my shoulders and tugs me into his chest.
“Look.”
I shake my head. I don’t want to see my own disappointments, my unmet expectations. I don’t want to see the result of all my painstaking effort reduced to some … ramshackle attempt. Caleb huffs, his hand gentle beneath my chin. He brushes a kiss to my temple and guides my face up.
“Look, Layla.”
I reluctantly look up at the front of my bakehouse. The hanging flowers that I could see from the windows last night are gone, the discarded petals swept up and the floor bare. The stems that were on every table are missing too, the mason jars back in their usual spot, stacked behind the counter. It looks like the bakehouse on any other day. Big windows and wooden tables. Thick pine trees crowding close.
Perfectly normal. Perfectly plain.
“I’m so proud of you,” he tells me, his voice warm in my ear. The exact same way he said it last night, when this place looked like magic.
I let my head fall back against his chest and look up. I can only see the curve of his jaw, the lines by his left eye. I can’t tell if he’s being honest.
“Why?” I ask. “All of my work, everything I did—it was for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing.”
“It was, because right now all I see is the usual. Nothing special.”
He makes a disbelieving sound under his breath. “Nothing special?” He swallows heavily, a click in the back of his throat. “You don’t need all of that extra stuff. The flowers were nice, but they were just details. I tried to tell you that last night.”
“Tell me, what?”
“It’s you, Layla. Without the frills, maybe, but this place is you. Your heart. Your kindness. Your butter croissants and your coffee. There isn’t a single person who walks up those steps that isn’t charmed by you.”
I exhale a shaky breath and turn in his arms. I try to believe the words he’s saying, but it’s hard.
“You really think so?”
His palm slides down the column of my spine. “I know so, and so do you. Where is the Layla that takes my compliments with a grin and a nod because she knows they’re exactly what she deserves?”
“Hiding,” I mumble. She’s buried under layers of self-doubt and exhaustion. “Maybe try again.”
I can feel his smile loosening his shoulders, relaxing his body. I tuck a small one right in the middle of his chest.
“You’re amazing, Layla,” he whispers. “If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life, it would be your butter croissants.”
I snicker. “Liar.”
“It’s true. I want a picture of one to keep in my wallet for when I’m feeling lonely.”
A laugh bursts out of me. I rest my cheek against his chest again and squeeze tight.
“I’m going to get Nova to tattoo one on my body.”
Now there’s an interesting idea. I flush warm with the possibilities. Maybe on the span of his ribcage. On the jut of his hipbone. In that delicious line that runs down the middle of his abs. Someplace I can trace with my tongue. It’s a lovely distraction.
