Page 5 of Mixed Signals
His smile tumbles headfirst into a grin, so bright and sudden and beautiful that I have to remind myself to breathe. Those dimples blink back to life in his cheeks and it’s a good thing he’s holding on to my arm. His thumb rubs once against the inside of my elbow—an aimless, unthinking touch. Caleb tilts his head forward and a lock of dark hair falls over his forehead. Some far recess of my mind is still whispering,what in the hell is going on?
When did Caleb Alvarez get sohot?
“If you’re sure,” I murmur.
I’m not sure. I’m probably the least sure I’ve ever been. What secret will Caleb reveal next? Can he play the harmonica? Does he also have a strange animal bobblehead on the dash of his car? Is he sneaky hot but also a terrible driver? Oh god, does he drive insilence? Does he hate music? I have no idea. I’m truly just along for the ride at this point, my mind sufficiently blown by a set of strong biceps and a shirt with rotating palm trees.
“I’m sure.” He is resolute as he uncurls his fingers from around my arm and picks up the fruity concoction in front of him. I watch the way his shirt stretches across his chest with rabid interest. I feel like I’m in an alternate dimension where the nice, unassuming guy who comes into my bakery with almost militant precision is suddenly a dreamboat in a Hawaiian shirt. “Just give me a second to talk to Alex and we’ll get going.”
He ambles away, crossing through the tables, somehow managing to not look ridiculous. I watch him go.
So does every other woman in the establishment. A few men, too.
Celia whistles low. Damn, I didn’t even realize she was still standing there. “You made quick work of that.”
I scratch once at my eyebrow and watch as Caleb attempts to extricate Alex out of his sloppy salsa routine. Alex pulls an evasive maneuver while Charlie fist-pumps aggressively. “We live in the same town. I know him.”
“I’d like to get to know him,” she mumbles under her breath.
I turn to look at her and raise both eyebrows. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
She waves her hand. “Nah. I sensed vibes.”
“There were no vibes. He’s just a really nice guy.”
The nicest. I routinely watch him help little old ladies cross the street. He volunteers every year for dig day at the farm, when residents of the town help us prep the fields for the new season. Half of the time I can’t tell if he genuinely enjoys the butter croissants he religiously orders, or if he just wants to support a local business. Stella once referred to him as chronically kind. He is sweet and funny and is never too busy to stop and help load seven 50-pound bags of sugar into the back of my hatchback.
Dane, our town Sheriff, fired him from his deputy position four months ago for beingtoo nice.From what I hear, he accepted one too many parking ticket payments in the form of IOU’s written on the back of old receipts. I heard from Matty at the pizza shop that some of them got pretty explicit.
He’s been substitute teaching at the high school ever since.
I watch as Alex attempts to dip his older brother. All of the people gathered around the table cheer. I grin. “Like, a really nice guy.”
“Sure, sure.” Celia sets the glass she’s been polishing for close to fifteen minutes to the side. Picks up another. “I’ll make it two slices to go.”
Caleb finally wrestles Alex into a stationary position. I watch them with their heads huddled together. Caleb says something that makes Alex brighten and then he’s trying to get on top of the table again, hand shielded against his eyes even though the sun set hours ago. He spots me by the bar.
And then he screams at the top of his lungs.
“LAAAAAAAYLA.”
Caleb looks mortified.
I make my way over to the table before he can begin launching projectiles across the beach bar. As soon as I’m close enough, he makes a spectacular swan dive off the top of the table and lands somewhere near my feet. He wraps both of his arms around my legs.
“Laylaaaaaaa,” he drags out the syllables of my name on a warble in his best Eric Clapton impersonation. “You came to my birthday party!”
I try to haul him up with my arms beneath his, but we’re impeded by the six-foot-five wall of muscle suddenly bear-hugging us both. Charlie smells like an entire shelf of liquor, his big, dumb face pressed into my shoulder.
“Layla.” He sounds suspiciously close to tears. “It’s so good to see you.”
I press my palm to his forehead and push him off me. “You saw me last weekend, you brute.”
Stella and her boyfriend Luka had dinner at their place and I had the distinct pleasure of watching my best friends and their significant others fawn over each other. Charlie left after fifteen minutes claiming a stomach ache and I concluded my evening with the best date I’ve had in months—a shiny bottle of sauvignon blanc and a plate of peanut butter fudge cookies I made myself.
“Still,” Charlie slurs. He pulls back, his big blue eyes wide as saucers. He’s wearing a coconut bra and a flower behind his ear. He looks ridiculous. “Wanna do a shot?”
Alex lets out that high pitched screech again. A chant ofshots, shots, shotsstarts up amongst the entire Alvarez group. I feel two strong hands on my shoulders, gently guiding me away from the drunk love bugs hanging all over me.
