Page 57 of Mixed Signals
I settle into the comfort of the silence between us, rain on the hood of the Jeep and the faint rumble of thunder in the distance. It smells like cinnamon in here. Cinnamon and coffee and Caleb, all twisted together. I’d like to stay for a long while in this car, just sitting next to him. Fog on the windows and his hand exactly two inches away from mine on the center console. It would be so easy to edge my fingers over. Trace his knuckles with the pad of my thumb.
Instead I sigh and squint out the window. “It’s still raining.”
“It is.”
“I think I’m going to make a run for it.”
I hear the click of his seatbelt. “I’ll walk you.”
“You are not walking me to the door.”
I start to curl my hands around the hem of the borrowed shirt but Caleb stops me with gentle fingertips against the back of my hand. “Keep it.” He looks like he’s struggling with the thought of seeing my white dress again. Good, I am glad I’m not the only one suffering here. “And don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m walking you to your door.”
“You are not.”
“Who do you think I am? Peter?”
I pause. “Who is Peter?”
“The guy with the lint roller.”
Ah, how quickly I’ve forgotten in the face of ridiculous Hawaiian shirts and dimples. I reach for the handle of the door. “There’s no need for you to walk in the rain.”
He sighs. “Layla. I’m going to walk you to your—”
I slip from the car before he can finish his sentence, slamming the door behind me and hopping from stone to stone on my walkway, my shoes tucked under my arm. The path is warm on my feet and the rain is cool on my skin, fresh cut grass and wet pavement and sunflowers rising up around me. I can smell the honeysuckle from the bushes at the edge of my yard. Wet earth and faint citrus.
Thunder rolls in the distance, a final farewell from the summer storm.
A car door slams. “Layla!”
I skip faster. The stubborn man can stand in the rain by himself if he wants to. I barely have my feet on the bottom step of my front porch when two strong arms wrap around my waist. A laugh bursts out of me as Caleb spins me around and around—the grass and the flowers and the rain and my pretty pink house blurring together beneath the evening sky. A swirl of color and sound and happiness. He sets me down on my top step, going still as I turn in his grip.
It’s the easiest thing in the world, to loop my arms around his neck. To feel his broad palm settle warmly on the small of my back. I grin at him. “Your shirt is getting wet again.”
Raindrops catch in his eyelashes. I watch as a drop of water works its way down over his cheekbone. It slips through the day’s worth of stubble on his jaw and down his tanned neck.
“I don’t care about my shirt.”
“No?”
He shakes his head.
“What do you care about?”
His arms tighten around my waist and the ghost of a smile tips his lips. It’s a secret, that look. A promise. It’s the only warning I get before he closes the inches between us and presses his mouth to mine.
I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed with a smile before. I’m convinced I can taste it on his lips with the rainwater pouring down over us both—traces of strawberries and cream. Our lips brush and Caleb makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. Surprised, delighted, the very start of a laugh. He slips one hand up my spine and grips my hair, gently guiding my face to the side until he finds an angle he likes. His nose digs into my cheek as he continues to brush his lips against mine—once, twice, three times.
Sweet, tasting kisses.
He pulls away and drops his forehead to mine, his thumb tracing a line up my throat.
“What are you waiting for?” I whisper, dazed and hungry. My hands are two fists in the wet material over his shoulders. I’m greedy, absolutely ferocious with want.
He huffs a laugh as he brushes his lips against mine again. The perfect picture of control. The man who orders a single croissant with an entire buffet of sugar in front of him.
Right as I am about to combust, he takes a breath and presses his mouth to mine.
