Page 32 of Mixed Signals
She flops down on the stool Beckett abandoned three hours ago after he consumed all of the goodies within his direct line of sight. “I really expected more enthusiasm.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
“For an announcement you have given me no context on?”
Stella nods. “Yes.”
“Okay.” I raise one arm up in the air and let out a whoop. I drop it back down to my side. “Good?”
“Better.” Stella nods with a grin. “Because I just got a call fromBaltimore Magazineand they want to run a feature on you for their ‘Best Of’ issue.”
I blink at Stella. “What?”
She’s back to bouncing up and down in her seat, practically vibrating on the other end of the island. “They called a little bit ago. I ran all the way here from the office and you know how much I hate cardio endurance. They said they’ve been seeing the bakehouse all over social media and monitoring reviews and not only will you be included in their list of best bakeries in Maryland, but they want to do a feature on you as well. A full spread. A photoshoot!”
She practically screams the last two words at me.
“Of me?” I point at my chest, a smudge of powdered sugar against my t-shirt.
“Of you!” Stella shrieks, launching herself halfway over the counter and into my arms. Her elbow lands in my bowl of batter. Her knee edges the tray right off the table and onto the floor. She holds me tight with both arms around my shoulders. Her bony little elbow is digging into my neck.
“Are you sure?” I ask into her hair. I can’t comprehend it. My bakehouse doesn’t even have aname. Justthe bakehouse. And they want— “You’re sure they want me?”
“They mentioned you by name and talked at length about your blueberry crumble scones. They’ll be here in a couple of weeks for your interview and photoshoot.” Stella pulls back and shakes my shoulders lightly. “Of course they want you.Youare amazing.”
“They want me for a feature.” I try the words out. It still sounds too incredible to believe. “They want to put me in a magazine.”
Stella grins, her eyes soft. Her hands squeeze my arms in the one-two-three I always see Luka give her. Shoulders, elbows, hands.
“Of course they do.”
I’m still ridinga high of endorphins and far too much sugar by the time I leave the bakehouse, rumbling down the long road that leads back to town. Stella gave me the rest of the details in barely tempered excitement, yelling every third word, stopping repeatedly to smack me in the arm with her own enthusiastic brand of support.
They wantme.My little bakehouse. The girl who never studied baking in any formal capacity and tripped right into this profession. I’ve never needed anyone’s validation other than my own to feel good about what I do—to be happy in my little glass house in the middle of all the pine trees—but it feels nice to be noticed. To be recognized.
I swing by the liquor store on a whim, winding my way through stacks of Natty Boh and an impressive arrangement of vodka bottles in the shape of a Maryland blue crab. I stop on my way to the boxed wine and peer up at the bottles of champagne stacked high on the shelf, the orange ones at the top glowing beneath the terrible, flickering lighting in this place.
It’s like a sun beam broke through the clouds and illuminated them on the shelf. Kismet. It’s the universe telling me I deserve the damn champagne.
“I do deserve it,” I reason. It’s not every day I snag a magazine feature in one of the most widespread issuesBaltimore Magazinepublishes. Local networks make television specials for theBest Ofissue. Most of the restaurants down on the shore get their features framed and hung on the wall. Not a single Inglewild business has ever been recognized before.
I search the floor for one of the step stools Juliette keeps for restock so I can reach my celebratory champagne. No luck. I sigh and scratch once at my temple. “No problem. I can still reach it.”
“Why does it sound like you’re issuing yourself a challenge?”
I peek over my shoulder to the owner of that deep and rumbling voice, Caleb standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed over his chest and a smile hitching at his mouth. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt today. Faded jeans with a tear just above the knee. Black sunglasses pushed back over his hair.
He looks delicious.
Even more so than he did last night when he picked me up at the house, his hands clasped behind his back and a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. No lint roller for Caleb. Nope, he walked all the way to my front door and knocked politely, hovered his hand over the small of my back as he opened the passenger side door of his Jeep.
He gestures towards the shelf. “What was your approach going to be?”
I extend my leg and point at the bottom with my foot like I’m a ballerina and this shelf is my stage. Caleb swallows heavily. “I was going to scurry on up like a squirrel.”
He pushes himself off the end cap, lazily making his way over to me. It looks like he’s recovered from our little roller skating adventure. All of the bandages are missing from his arms, though there’s a pretty nasty bruise just above his elbow. I frown at it as he moves closer.
