Page 21 of Mixed Signals
“What?” He looks down at his shirt. “Oh. No. It’s strawberry filling. I grabbed a donut from the display case on my way in.”
Of course he did. I drop my head back to the ceiling and groan. “And what were you doing before you came in here?”
As head of farm operations, it’s not exactly suspicious that Beckett looks like he spent all morning rolling around in a puddle of mud. But he’s been trying to convince me for the past month and half that I should adopt a bunch of chickens from the produce farm down the road. I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s building a chicken coop in the tree field right next to the bakehouse despite me telling him specifically not to do that.
I don’t want any chickens, and I don’t want to hear Beckett talking about chickens for the foreseeable future. The man has a problem.
His silence is answer enough. I don’t bother opening my eyes. I want to crawl under one of the prep tables and take a very long nap with a very big bottle of wine.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” he mumbles.
“Mmhmm.”
I hear the door swing open again and my entire body goes taut. I am a rubber band stretched way too tight, two seconds away from snapping.
“Woah.” It’s Luka’s voice this time, his boots stuttering against the hardwood. “Weird vibes in here.”
I open my eyes just in time to watch him press a lingering kiss to the back of Stella’s head, his arm curling around her shoulders, his palm pressed flat over her heart. She loops her hand around his wrist and squeezes. Something in my chest squeezes, too.
I am happy for them. So, so happy for them. It took them ten years to get to this place with easy affection and whispered words. No one deserves it more than them.
But I’m sad for me, too. A little bit weary. Tired in my head and in my heart.
I breathe in deep through my nose. Out again. Beckett watches my breathing exercises with consideration. His face gets more and more grim the longer I try to collect myself.
“Luka,” he says without bothering to look at the man he’s commanding. Which is good, because Luka is busy pretending that we can’t all see the palm of his hand inching down over the swell of Stella’s ass.
“What?” Luka mumbles, his nose behind Stella’s ear.
“Get the Gator.”
“Why?”
Beckett’s eyes narrow until they’re two tiny slits. He looks like Clint Eastwood gazing into the sun. The only thing missing is a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. Evie has been gone for two weeks on a work trip and the man is a walking storm cloud.
“We’re going out.”
Luka, bless him, doesn’t move a muscle. “Where are we going?”
Beckett turns his head slowly. “Do you still have that face paint?”
Luka grins. Stella groans. I snort a laugh.
Luka and Beckett’s favorite problem-solving method is to sit in bushes with green and black paint smeared over their faces and intimidate whatever is causing the issue. The last time they did it, Dane put them in the drunk tank for 48 minutes and made them watchKeeping Up With The Kardashiansas punishment. Beckett almost cried. Stella and I had to bail them out with fresh baked donuts with custard cream filling—Dane’s favorite.
A smile ticks at the corner of my mouth. “No. This is not a face paint situation.”
“Then why do you look upset? And why is Stella’s phone in a bowl of icing?”
“It’s shortcake filling,” I mutter, feeling petulant. I reach for the bowl and fish out the device, tapping off the excess cream and wiping at the edges with a dishtowel. I can feel three sets of eyes on me.
“I’m just—” I hand Stella her phone. She takes it, but she grabs my wrist and holds on, too. Luka shifts his body so he can sling his arm over my shoulder. We stand there, a weird semi-group hug thing happening. I don’t hate it.
“I’m just tired of being disappointed,” I whisper. I try to clear my throat but sadness sticks there, clinging, making my voice thick.
I’m tired of being alone, I want to say.
No one says anything in response to that. It’s quiet in the kitchen, nothing but the tick of the timer in the corner and the hum of the oven. I put some mini pies in there not too long ago. Blueberry and rhubarb with little stars cut into the crust. They’ll need to come out soon. But before I can even think of extricating myself from Luka and Stella, Beckett grunts behind me and then all three of us are wrapped in strong, sweaty arms. It’s disgusting. I’m going to need to change my apron.
