Page 63 of Mixed Signals
“I told you not to look at the security cameras.”
Evie’s face flushes even darker. She ducks her head and tips closer to Beckett. “There arecameras?”
Beckett cups the nape of her neck with his hand and squeezes. “Not at our place, honey.”
“Alright, I’ve heard enough, thank you.” I don’t need to know what weird exhibitionist things my friends are up to. “Why are you all here?”
Evie and Beckett stand from their stools. Stella hooks her arm through my elbow and starts tugging me towards the front of the bakeshop. “We have something to show you.”
“That’s great, but my custards—”
She shushes me, leading me forcefully around the counter and through the dining space, out the front door and down the steps. I stumble as I try to keep up with her, and slam into her back when she comes to an abrupt stop. She turns to face me and claps her hand over my eyes.
“Ow.”
She ignores me. “We did something for your photoshoot next week.”
Oh, god. The last time Beckett and Stella tried to help me with something baking-related, I ended up with three dozen burnt cookies, two shattered ceramic bowls, and sprinkles over every square inch of my kitchen floor. I love Stella to the moon and back, but she’s hopeless when it comes to the kitchen. And Beckett has the patience of an irate three-year-old. “Who iswe?”
“All of us,” Luka says from somewhere behind me. That makes me feel incrementally better. If Luka is involved, it can’t be too much of a disaster. He’d at least clean up the sprinkles first. I’m rearranged in front of the bakehouse, turned around and around until I have no idea which way I’m facing. “Caleb, too. Once we told him.”
“Told him, what?”
Stella pulls her hand from my face. I blink against the bright summer sun sifting through the branches of the trees. I’m standing at the very bottom of the stone steps that lead up to the entrance, flowers and vines twisting up and around the heavy wooden frame of the shop. The blooms frame the entry like the prettiest of pictures, purple and gold and pale blue.
I focus on the bank of windows on the left.
“Um.” My eyebrows knit in confusion. “Am I supposed to be watching Gus do inappropriate things to a quiche?”
Stella huffs. “No. Over there.”
She directs my attention to the massive window on the opposite side of the door, thick clusters of Black-Eyed Susan on either side. I still remember planting those, the very first day Stella gave me the keys to the renovated barn. Dirt up to my elbows and a smile splitting my face. It finally felt like I was in the right place, at exactly the right time. An echo in my heart and in my blood.
Home.
I take in the new addition on the window.
Painted with care—in flowing gold script that takes up almost the entire space—isLayla’s Bakehouse.A line curves beneath, dotted with small white flowers. And just above it is a brand new metal sign, swinging gently back and forth in the warm breeze. A bronze circle with the same flowing script, a pie etched beneath. I’d bet all of the croissants sitting in my workspace that Beckett made that.
I have to press my fingers beneath my eyes. My whole face feels suspiciously tight.
“You told me you wanted something to be yours,” Beckett tells me quietly. His arm swings around my shoulder and he pulls me close. Stella piles in on my other side, and then Luka and Evie. I guess group hugs are officially a thing for us now.
“This has always been yours. Now it just says so.”
Caleb is waitingon my front porch when I get home.
Sprawled across my bottom steps like the most delicious lawn ornament I’ve ever seen, Caleb looks sun-kissed and lazy. Half-smile on his face. One long leg stretched out in front of him. I have to stop and take a moment as I slip out of my car.
“I thought you were taking me out tonight,” I call. I’m distracted by his white button-up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the collar undone. He must have come right from school, a light dusting of chalk against his left pants pocket where he probably leaned up against something.
“Change of plans,” he says with a grin. He nudges the grocery bag at his hip.
I stroll to a stop at the very bottom of my stairs and tip my head back as he uncurls himself from his step. The last time we were standing here, I had my knees hugging his hips and his mouth against mine. He exhales slowly, a look of deep concentration on his face, the line between his eyebrows deepening the longer he looks. I think he’s remembering, too.
“Thank you,” I tell him, my voice softer than I mean for it to be.
One eyebrow arches on his forehead. “For what?”
