Page 4 of Mixed Signals
“Thank you,” I manage, resisting the urge to clear my throat. I don’t think Bryce told me once that I looked nice tonight, beyond his comment about me being prettier than my profile picture let on. And what a compliment that was.
I put effort into tonight. I wore my mint green dress with the thin straps, a slit in the side up to my thigh. I wanted to look nice. To feel pretty and cherished and desired.
And I wasted all of it on Bryce.
“Are you here with Stella and Beckett?”
I amuse myself for a moment with the mental image of Beckett, our resident grumpy head farmer, frowning with a coconut drink in his hand. But then I finger the strap of my dress and let out a blustery sigh, glancing back over to the table I abandoned. “I’m here on a date. Well, I guess Iwason a date.”
Because Bryce is nowhere to be seen. Our table is empty and I swear some of the silverware is missing. My dessert plate, too.
Asshole.
Caleb is confused. “With, uh, with yourself?”
“No. With a big ol’ turd who dines and dashes, apparently.” I frown as I think about what will inevitably be a very long and very expensive Lyft back to Inglewild. “Shoot. He picked me up for dinner.”
“And he left?” Caleb’s face turns into a storm cloud. His jaw clenches, dimples evaporating as quickly as they appeared.
“Believe me,” I offer. “This is an improvement.”
I cannot imagine sitting in Bryce’s car for the thirty-minute drive back to Inglewild, staring balefully at the hamster bobblehead on the dash. He’d probably play Ace of Base. Or worse, Nickelback.
“He shouldn’t have left you,” is all Caleb says, still staring unseeingly at the empty table. He looks like he’s about to charge out in the parking lot and exact some vigilante justice. The thought is oddly delightful.
“It’s alright. I’ll just grab a Lyft home.” I turn to look at Celia still standing behind the bar, her eyes darting back and forth between Caleb and I. “I’ll take that extra slice to go, I think.”
“Hold on a sec.” Caleb wraps his long fingers right above my elbow and squeezes once. His touch is gentle, his palm warm. “I’ll drive you back.”
“No, no. That’s okay.” I look over to the far end of the bar where Alex is being dipped by his dancing partner, both of them laughing so hard they can barely stand up. Their table is surrounded by a collection of people in various matching Hawaiian shirts. The entire Alvarez family, I finally realize. Their uncle Benjamín is wearing his shirt tied high around his waist in a weird bastardization of a crop top. I grin. “You can’t leave. It’s your brother’s birthday.”
I squint, focusing on one dark-haired man with a coconut bra at the far end of their little group. He stands a little bit taller than the rest. “Is that Charlie?”
Caleb doesn’t bother following my stare. “Yeah, it is.”
I watch as Stella’s half-brother shimmies, a drink in each hand. “He drove down from New York?”
“You know him. He never misses a party.” Caleb keeps his hand and his eyes on me. “Alex won’t remember anything past an hour ago. I promise. Let me drive you home.”
“But his drink.”
“I’ll drop it off and then we can go.”
“How will he get home?”
“We rented a Margaritaville bus.” Of course they did. Caleb gives me another bashful look, his blush deepening to a deep crimson. “He really loves a tropical theme,” he mumbles.
I roll my lips against a smile. “Will we be stealing the bus, then?”
“What? No.” He looks alarmed. “I drove separately.”
“Do you hate Jimmy Buffett?”
A smile hooks the corner of his mouth. “I think everyone hates Jimmy Buffett a little bit.”
“Except Alex.”
“Except Alex, of course.”
