Page 29 of Mixed Signals
This time I don’t do anything to restrain my grin. It tumbles right out of me. “Great.”
She reaches for another chip and puts an unholy amount of liquid cheese on it. “What do you think? A month?”
How she manages to take a dainty bite of that monstrosity, I’ll never know.
“A month sounds good.”
So does two. So does four. Few things sound better than sitting next to Layla, eating slightly stale chips in a field behind theSkate It Easy.
But that’s the exact impulse I’m trying to curb with this little experiment. I jump in with two feet when there’s even a hint of something, pouring all of myself into everything. And then I second guess. I overthink. I try to rent out a roller rink for a single date with a girl I like.
Too much.Way too fast.
“And if either of us wants to end it, for whatever reason, that’s it. No explanation necessary.”
“Fair enough.” I scoop some salsa and somehow manage to spill it all over my chest. I flick off an onion and watch it sail over the side of the hill. “And it’s only us, during our month. I won’t be going on dates with anyone else.”
I don’t mention that no one’s caught my interest for a while now. I’ve been too busy eating butter croissants and ordering ridiculous, custom-made buttercream cakes. Layla watches me, a strand of hair dancing across her cheek. I want to tuck it carefully behind her ear. I want to brush my knuckles against her skin and feel how soft she is.
“I won’t date anyone either,” she says. Experiment, I remind myself.This is an experiment.The rush of pleasure I feel over the idea of Layla only spending time with me is not appropriate.
“I’m not sacrificing a whole heck of a lot there,” she continues. “My dates have been miserable lately.”
“Hopefully we can fix that, skate disasters notwithstanding.”
She brightens considerably. “This skate disaster was a delight, thank you very much.”
I busy myself with another chip from the tray while I watch the melting sunlight slip over her skin. Reds and golds and a deep burnished orange. She looks like she was meant to be exactly here, sprawled out in the grass next to me, the frayed hem of her shorts high against the creamy skin of her thighs. There’s a throb down my entire left side from hitting the floor one too many times, but there’s one at the base of my spine, too. In the palms of my hands.
“One last question.”
I blink back to her face. I’m used to three feet of countertop between us and her colorful aprons that tie at her neck. Sitting this close to Layla and having all of her attention focused on me is an exercise in resistance.
“Shoot.” It comes out hoarse. I clear my throat.
Layla’s grin tips into something unrestrained. Brighter than the colors dancing ribbons through the sky.
“When are you taking me out again?”
SEVEN
LAYLA
“What in thehell are you doing?”
Beckett jumps as I lean my shoulder up against the back door of the bakery, a mug of coffee in my hand. I bet he didn’t expect me to be here today. I’m guessing he was counting on exactly that, given the chicken wire bundled in his arms and the guilty expression half-shadowed by the bill of his baseball cap.
He blinks at me. I take a sip out of my mug. This is how ninety percent of our conversations begin and end.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says, like there isn’t a two-by-four over his shoulder.
“Hm.”
I don’t say anything else. He fidgets. Well, as much as a man his size holding all the supplies for a chicken coop between his huge, tattooed arms can fidget.
He sighs and lets everything drop to the ground in a clatter. He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at me.
“What are you even doing here?” he demands.
