Page 85 of Mixed Signals
I rub my nose into his chest, like one of Beckett’s cats. I let out a deep, rattling sigh. All of my anxiety and frustration and disappointment tumbles right out of me into the summer air.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For being here.”
He cups his hand around the back of my neck and squeezes. I feel his lips somewhere in my hair.
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
The peoplefromBaltimore Magazinearrive at ten o’clock on the dot to a clean, air conditioned bakery—blueberry scones and strawberry shortcake filling every inch of the display cases. The bakehouse is bustling with a line out the door. I think the entire town is here, waiting for something to eat. Not only the people who showed up at the crack of dawn to help me piece myself back together, but a bunch of new guests, too.
Sheriff Dane Jones stands near the front of the line, his hand looped around Matty’s elbow, his hat tucked under his arm, a rare but bright smile hitching at the side of his mouth when Matty leans into him and whispers something in his ear. Jeremy and his mom are caught somewhere near the middle, Jeremy breaking away every now and then to bounce up and down while shooting me an energetic wave. And Charlie, somehow down from New York—wearing a crisp dark suit with his nose buried in his phone, leaning up against the coffee station with a blueberry scone in his hand. He glances up briefly and does a double take when he sees Nova, Beckett’s youngest sister and resident tattoo artist, examining the chalk drawings on my menu board.
But my eyes find Caleb. He’s sitting in the corner with Beckett and Luka, all three of them looking like they just went ten rounds in a mud pit, sipping tea out of tiny china cups. Apparently they went scavenging through the fields for all the wildflowers they could get their hands on. The bakehouse is dotted with splashes of color—the smell of honeysuckle threading with warm butter and fresh blueberries.
Caleb catches my eye with a wink, and my nerves settle a little more.
I finger a bouquet of daisies by the cash register and watch as they approach. There’s only two of them, a casually-dressed man with dark blonde hair and a small woman with a camera looped around her neck. I watch as the man’s head tips back as he looks at the restored wooden beams slanted across the ceiling, the wicker baskets we turned into lampshades. A smile starts in his eyes and tugs at his cheeks until he’s grinning, spinning on his heel to take it all in.
They make their way through the crowd of people—the crowd of myfriends—and I stand a little taller. I find that quiet well of pride that burst to life my very first day here, a set of keys in my hand. I sink into it and my smile settles into something sure.
“Hey. I’m Layla.” I introduce myself, the sounds of the bakehouse flowing around me like the tide. A tea cup settling into a saucer. The grind of coffee beans. A bright laugh, over by the chalkboard. “Welcome to my bakehouse.”
“Didyou see his face when he tried the scone?” I grab two fistfuls of Caleb’s t-shirt and shake him back and forth. Well, I do my best, but he’s about as solid as a small mountain, standing propped up against my counter. “He looked like he ascended.”
Caleb scrubs the back of his head. “I saw his face when he was looking at you,” he grumbles.
I wave that away. “They seemed really happy. They stayed longer than they said they would, and then took so many pictures!” Anita, the photographer, barely stopped to eat. Will, the reporter, ate six scones and two cups of shortcake. He asked for a box to go. I am high on the endorphins of adrenaline and exhaustion.
Caleb’s face softens. “Of course they did.”
“I think it’ll be a good feature.”
“Of course it will.” He presses the back of his hand against his mouth to stifle a yawn, then shakes his head like he’s trying to force away his own fatigue. He reaches for a hand towel and folds it into neat squares. “It was great, Layla. Even if Bill couldn’t keep his hands off of you.”
“Will,” I correct with a small smile and a poke to his forearm. “And he shook my hand. That was it.”
“It was a really friendly handshake,” Caleb insists.
“Relax.” I untie my apron from around my back and stretch out my neck. “You’re still stuck with me for another week. I don’t plan on ending our arrangement early.”
A part of me is considering extending our arrangement. I’ve thought about it more than once over the past week. But I still don’t know what parts of us work within the parameters we’ve created for ourselves, and which parts are truly, genuinely us. I still don’t trust anything this good to be real.
I glance up and meet Caleb’s eyes, his lips tilted down in a frown.
“What is it?”
He pushes himself off of the counter and wipes his palms against his jeans. He still hasn’t fixed his shirt. “Has it been three weeks already?”
I nod. “Yep. Your final evaluation is going to be a real banger.”
The joke lands flat between us. I shift uncomfortably on my feet and search for something to say to get rid of all this awkward tension. “What do you—” I watch as he traces an aimless line against my countertop with his pointer finger, face still set in sharp edges. “What do you have planned for your last date?”
He considers my question for far too long, a deep breath curling his shoulders forward. He collects himself slowly, a smile at half of its usual wattage nudging that dimple awake. He stops fussing with the stuff on my countertop and stands to his full height.
“You’ll see when we get there, yeah? I’m not giving up my secrets now.” He meets my eyes. Warm, golden brown. Flecks of amber. My favorite crinkles at the corners. “How about I start with giving you a lift home?”
Relieved, I drape my apron over the hook.
“Yeah. That sounds really nice.”
