Page 33 of Mixed Signals
“While I’m sure that would have been entertaining, let me help you out.” Caleb stops right next to me and reaches up, up, up. I get a whiff of sunscreen and cinnamon, rich coffee and sweet cream. I want to press my nose to his shoulder and breathe in deep. Maybe climb him instead of the shelf.
He arches an eyebrow down at me with his arm still extended. I grin, unashamed.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re plotting something?” he says, voice low.
“Me?” I point a finger at my chest. “Never.”
“Sure.” He huffs a laugh and curls his hand around the bottle I had my eye on, pulling it down without even resorting to tip-toes. He offers it to me, whistling when he sees the label. “What’re you celebrating?”
I hold the bottle close to my chest, grinning so hard my cheeks ache with it. “Baltimore Magazinewants to feature the bakehouse in an upcoming issue.”
“Layla.” I’ve never heard anyone say my name like that. Like they don’t want to say anything else ever again. His smile spreads wide until the crinkles at the edge of his eyes wink at me. I stare at him until my own lips tip up at the corners and we’re grinning at each other in the middle of the liquor store aisle like two silly idiots. He hesitates, and then smooths his hands over my arms to grip my shoulders. A half-hug. A hand-hug. His fingers squeeze. “That’s incredible.”
The heat of his palms bleeds through my thin tank top and I lean into his touch. “It is, isn’t it?”
He nods. “Way overdue.”
I beam at him. The invitation is there, on the tip of my tongue.Come over,I want to say.We’ll eat the cupcakes that I stress baked last week when I thought you were avoiding me and we’ll drink this champagne. We’ll watch something stupid on TV and I won’t have to be alone.
But it feels like too much. Like it’s maybe crossing a line in this strange arrangement we’ve made for ourselves. So I swallow it down and tuck my smile into something restrained and try not to feel any type of way about his hands on my skin. His pinky just barely edging under the strap of my tank top.
He clears his throat and lets go, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
I scramble for something to keep Caleb in front of me. For just one more second. I tip my head to the side and scuff the tip of my shoe across the floor. “You know, you never answered me yesterday.”
“What’s that?”
I push past him to the check-out, noticing for the first time the six pack of Natty Boh waiting by his feet. He picks it up as he follows me.
“When are you taking me out again?”
“Ah.” A blush darkens his cheeks and he scratches behind his ear. I wedge my champagne bottle under my arm and grab a bag of Old Bay chips to add to my celebratory feast. Caleb grins at my collection of items. “Are you free on Tuesday?”
“I sure am.”
“Good. Ah, great. I’ll pick you up at the same time?”
I nod. “Will I need wheels? Maybe some knee pads?” I poke him once in the ribs. “You want to give me any clues?”
He glances down at me, one dark eyebrow rising on his forehead. A smirk plucks at his mouth and oh, I like this version of Caleb, too. When the smooth, easy confidence edges out over his quiet bashfulness. When I can see a hint of something else—something teasing and delicious.
“Now where would be the fun in that?”
EIGHT
CALEB
“How did you know?”she breathes as soon as we arrive.
It had been another gamble, coming here, but Stella had sent me a string of vague text messages after I ran into Layla at the liquor store with a list of seemingly unrelated items. Things like:Lavender. Deep dish pizza with spinach and ricotta. Plants in terracotta bowls. Scarves. The color orange.
Escape rooms.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Stella thought I could benefit from a list of Layla’s favorite things, though the escape room addition had been surprising. Part of me thought Stella was setting me up, deliberately giving me something Layla would hate. That worry has evaporated, given the barely restrained glee Layla is broadcasting at the front doors.
She looks like a little firecracker over there, lit up and ready to shoot into the sky.
I rub my thumb against my bottom lip, trying not to smile. At the bakehouse, she’s reserved. Friendly, but quiet. I like getting to see these other pieces of her. Untempered enthusiasm and unadulterated joy.
