Page 85 of Business Casual
Caleb is busy gazing at the tiny pumpkin pies like they’re the answer to his salvation. “Charlie is,” he says without looking up.
Layla glances at my bare wrist, then up to my face. Her eyes narrow and her head cocks to the side.
“Is it a silver watch? Black face?”
I take another bite of bear claw and nod. “Yeah.”
“Hmm,” she says, mouth twisted to the side. A creeping feeling of unease pinches at the back of my neck. It’s the same look she gave Beckett that day she walked into the office and realized she was ambushed. She’s sizing me up, trying to figure me out. I swallow the rest of my pastry and try not to fidget under her attention.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she says airily, but her face is telling a different story. Layla looks like she wants to take that scarf out of her hair and strangle me with it.
Her eyes dart to Caleb and hold, watching him place the pies in the display case exactly the way she likes. She chews on her lip. “I’m just wondering if I should make another thing of coffee or not,” she says slowly, sounding stiff. She glances at me and hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “Help me with the machine in the kitchen.”
It does not sound like a request. It sounds like an order. I know for a fact that she does not need help with the machine in the kitchen. I watched her make a three-tier cake two days ago with edible leaves that she placed with special tweezers. The coffee pot requires about an eighth of that attention and dedication.
I think she wants to get me in the back kitchen so there are no witnesses.
We stare at each other across the counter. Her eyes narrow, her head tips to the side, and…I know she knows. She knows what I’ve been doing with Nova. I have no idea how, but that devious little mind of hers has figured it out.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion. Help me with the coffee machine.”
“I have a meeting, actually. That I should get going for.”
“You can leave for your meeting after you help me with the coffeemachine,” she says between clenched teeth. I think she’s trying to fake a smile. She’s not successful.
Caleb finishes up with the pies and sets the tray on the back counter. “I can help you with the coffee machine,” he offers.
She turns to look at him and some of the severity slips from her face. “Charlie can help me. You have that study group before homeroom this morning, remember?”
He glances at the clock on the wall behind the counter. “Ah, shit. You’re right.” He reaches down and collects his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He cups her chin with one hand and presses a quick kiss to her lips. “I’ll see you later?”
“You absolutely will,” she says, smiling. He lets his hand trail over her ponytail and the silky pink scarf twisted in her hair, tugging lightly. Her smile melts into something soft, and she clutches the front of his shirt in her fist, tugging him closer. I look away, fiddling with the straws again. Layla glued little cardboard pumpkins to some of them. I pick one up and twirl it between my fingers.
Caleb claps me on the shoulder as he rounds the counter. “You owe me a six pack,” he calls, heading for the door.
“And you owe me an explanation,” Layla says, a thin thread of warning in her tone. The door slams behind Caleb, and it’s just the two of us, the morning rush over and the front of the small bakehouse mostly empty. There’s no one to save me except Pete, sitting in the corner with a danish and a cup of coffee, reading the paper and minding his own business. Layla points to the door behind the counter. “Come help me with the coffee machine.”
“I told Pete I’d sit with him and do the crossword.”
“That’s all right, young man,” calls Pete, suddenly developing stellar hearing for the first time in his very long life. “I’m almost done.”
Fuck. “Even eighteen across?”
“Even eighteen across.”
Layla is still pointing at the door. “Coffee machine.”
I swallow hard. “I really don’t want to help you with the coffee machine,” I whisper.
“Don’t make me come around this counter.”
“Fine. Okay. Fine.” I move around the display case, careful to give her a wide berth, and push through the back door. It smells like cinnamon back here. Pumpkin and buttery, flaky pie crust. There’s still some filling in the mixer on the corner of the long metal work desk. A collection of various silicone spatulas and a cooling rack, empty and waiting.
Layla starts collecting dirty items and stacking them in her arms. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
