Page 76 of Mixed Signals
A laugh bursts out of her. “More ice cream,” she demands back. She drops a quick kiss to my jaw. “More kissing,” she whispers.
I cup my hand around the back of her neck and brush my mouth against hers. “Should probably start that part right now.”
She nods, her nose bumping mine. “Mmhm. I think so.”
So I tip my head to hers and kiss her, slower than the last time and sweeter, too. It feels like something more, this kiss.
More of Layla. More of me.
More of us together.
More of everything.
EIGHTEEN
LAYLA
Three days later,Caleb is standing in the middle of my kitchen again. But this time his hands are deep in his pockets and he’s staring at all of the fruit tarts crowded on the countertops like he’s a step or two away from staging an intervention. He scratches at his chin and then drags his palm over the back of his neck. He glances at me and then back to the countertop.
Hesitation, personified.
It’s cute.
“This is … a lot of food,” he says slowly, carefully. I think he’s afraid I might spook. It’s not an inappropriate reaction to my current mental state. He pokes lightly at the edge of a cupcake stand with his pinky finger, head tilted slightly to the side in consideration. That’s a new cupcake tower and probably unnecessary, but my Bahama Mama cupcakes look real pretty on it and that’s what matters.
Caleb turns to me and rocks back on his heels. I think this is the first time we’ve been in the same space in days without mauling each other. Apparently our conversation the other day has largely translated to making out on and against every flat surface in my bakehouse and beyond. But kissing Caleb hasn’t even entered my mind today, a testament to how nervous I am for myBaltimore Magazineinterview tomorrow.
He’s wearing a button up chambray shirt today, too. Loose with the sleeves rolled, two off-white buttons undone at the hollow of his throat. I wipe my hands down over my apron and look around my kitchen.
It’s not as bad as the morning Evelyn and Beckett came to visit, but it’s close. I toned it down slightly. If you squint, maybe. I still spent half of my day on six dozen custard tartlets, edible flowers lining the edges of every single one. Caleb had shown up during the last batch with another greasy breakfast sandwich and a kiss pressed to the back of my head. He slipped onto one of the stools and watched me with his chin against his fist, a lazy look on his handsome face every time I glanced up. Small smile, heavy eyes, just a hint of dimple. He looked like he wanted me more than the tartlets.
It didn’t stop him from swiping one, though.
Things with Caleb are good. Better than good. Last night we got ice cream at a little wooden stand halfway out of town and sat in the parking lot with our feet swinging off his back bumper. Cotton candy skies and a warm summer breeze twisting through the fields. I sat with my knee tucked against his thigh and ate butter pecan ice cream and watched the way the willows danced in the breeze. Caleb’s hand on top of my thigh, his thumb drifting back and forth on the sensitive skin beneath.
“More ice cream,” he told me with a grin, echoing our discussion the other night. I smiled back and his eyes settled into something softer, more serious. He had thumbed at my cheek affectionately, leaned forward and pressed a kiss right at the corner of my mouth. “More of this smile,” he added.
It’s the most comfortable I’ve ever been with a man. It’s liberating and lovely and terrifying and wonderful.
But mostly terrifying.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s hard to believe that my dating disasters have suddenly evaporated. I loved Caleb’s story about the cake, but I think—I think our arrangement has more to do with it than he thinks. Maybe the parameters of our pseudo relationship have given us both a pair of rose-colored glasses. Maybe the ticking clock is making sure we only see the best in each other, I don’t know.
It just feels too easy right now.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, watching as he rearranges some of my clean spatulas in order of size. He saw me do it once, and now he does it every time he’s back here with me. I found the aluminum foil organized in the closet the other day, too. Luka would be so proud.
He catches me staring and a smile quirks the corner of his mouth. The dimple in his left cheek flares back to life and my stomach swoops, an answeringthumpright in the center of my chest.
Maybe it’s just chemistry. I’ve been fooled by that before. Or maybe it truly is the freedom of our arrangement. The ability to be exactly who we are without any sort of pressure from one another. A time clock, slowly ticking down. It has to be that, because this sort of thing doesn’t just happen.
Not for me.
My heart sinks a bit and I busy myself with a square of parchment paper. If it’s just the arrangement, all of these feelings should fade as soon as our month together is done. We’ll part on good terms and go back to how things were before. Friendly conversation three times a week. A coffee with cream. Butter croissant.
I’ll have a shiny new measuring stick to hold up against my dates, and Caleb will know exactly how to woo the next woman he sets his eyes on. It’ll be like nothing ever happened between us at all.
The cookie I’m trying to wrap crumbles in my hands. I stare down at chunks of oatmeal and walnut and try to clear away the image of Caleb out with someone else. Would they get vanilla custard in cones on the beach? Would they sit behind theSkate It Easyand eat slightly stale nachos?
