Mixed Signals (Lovelight, #3)

by B.K. Borison

“Where are you from?” he asks. The depths of hell. Sent to destroy men who lie on the internet and are mean to those in the service industry.

His forearms flex, and I resist the urge to drag both of my palms down the sides of my face. What is it about forearms? Je-sus.

“What are the chances, huh?” He leans one elbow up on the bartop and gives me a slow, unfurling smile. Whew—okay. I definitely haven’t noticed those dimples before either.

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.

Why are you settling for crumbs when you deserve the whole damn cake?”

“I think I’m—I think I might be too much. For some people.”

“We really have no idea what we’re doing, huh?” “It’s nice to know that I’m not alone in the struggle.” He tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the answer.” “You’re absolutely right,” I say with a nod. “Let’s drown our feelings in dessert.” “That is . . . not what I said.” “Oh.”

“For someone who is supposedly bad at dating, you’re awfully smooth.” The smile in his eyes slips to his mouth. I trace the angles of his face in the moonlight. “Just with you, Layla.” Bad at dating, my ass.

But there’s another reason too. I’m convinced I’m picking the wrong type of person. Because the right type of person is about five foot three, has cropped brown hair and hazel eyes, a collection of ridiculous aprons, and absolutely no clue about my crush.

“Layla, I honestly don’t understand the level of urgency you have right now, but I’m going to match it because that’s what friends do.

“It’s the perfect situation. A gorgeous man with dimples—” “You’ve noticed his dimples, too?” I swear, I never once noticed his dimples prior to this weekend. “You mentioned them several times during that short story.” “Oh, okay.”

Beckett’s eyes narrow until they’re two tiny slits. He looks like Clint Eastwood gazing into the sun. The only thing missing is a toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

CALEB: Best I ever had. A laugh bursts out of me. I text right back. LAYLA: You’re damn right.

He blinks at me. I take a sip out of my mug. This is how ninety percent of our conversations begin and end.

“Evelyn cut me off,” he explains. “After Clarabelle.” That’s right. The cow he rescued from that dilapidated farm down in Virginia.

“You really think someone will want my pieces?” He shrugs. “At the very least, they’ll want this bread.” I flick a spatula at his head.

Stella gave me the rest of the details in barely tempered excitement, yelling every third word, stopping repeatedly to smack me in the arm with her own enthusiastic brand of support.

“How was I supposed to know there wasn’t a clue in the mattress?” “I thought me yelling, ‘There is no clue in the mattress,’ repeatedly over the intercom might help,” Eric says.

Layla gives me a fierce look. Her shoulders roll back, her chin tips up, and those pretty eyes that look like a summer storm narrow. It tugs at something deep inside me, and I am instantly, inexplicably turned on. Christ.

“I have a—well, I have a confession.” That gets his attention. He looks down at me and his jaw clenches. “Yes?” “It’s not a big deal.” “Okay.” “I don’t want you to freak out.”

“I hate to break it to you, Layla, but I’m about thirty percent of the way toward freaking out.” “Okay, so.” Where do I even begin? The year was 2013, and Beatrice and I decided to form a secret society where we share recipes and—

“In it for you?” I ask hazily, too focused on the slow press of his body against mine. “This is a secret, isn’t it?” His voice is lower now, a deep rumble that I can practically feel. His bottom lip grazes the hollow just beneath my ear, and I shiver. “What do I get for keeping your secrets, Layla Dupree?”

“What’re you thinking about?” he murmurs. I’m thinking about how he’d taste after one of these shortbread cookies. Whether he’s had his coffee yet and if I’d be able to taste that too. I smile to myself. If he only knew. I poke him in the chest and then spin away. “Something delicious.”

“How did you get on the phone tree?” Charlie makes a face. “Why wouldn’t I be on the phone tree?” “Because you don’t live here.” He taps his fist over his chest twice. “My heart is here. That’s what matters to the phone tree.

“What’s got that look on your face?” You keep showing me pieces of yourself that I want to collect like seashells. I can’t stop thinking about kissing you, and I have no idea how you’d feel about blurring those lines. I don’t want to scare you. I don’t want to get myself in too deep.

“You deserve good things, sweetheart.” He swallows hard, eyes searching mine. “Why can’t you see yourself? Why can’t you see how incredible you are?” “Because,” I say, my voice cracking at the edges. “Because no one else has bothered to.”

“You know you wear orange on Tuesdays?” I blink at him, confused by the sudden change of subject. “What?” “You wear orange,” he says again. “On Tuesdays. Sometimes it’s just a scarf in your hair; other times it’s your dress or your shoes or your apron. Once you wore a bright orange T-shirt and these little orange shorts that I swear took two to seven years off my life.” He blows out a deep, gusting breath and scrubs his hand against the back of his head. “And you drink chamomile tea in the afternoons. You get a line, right here,” he says, dragging the tip of his finger at the corner of my mouth, “when you’re excited and trying to hide it.”

I see you, Layla Dupree.” He says it so firmly, so resolute, that I can’t help but believe him. “Clear as day. I always have.”

He stares hard at the hem of his T-shirt against my bare thighs. I’m completely dwarfed in it—the thick, soft material almost down to my knees. It completely covers my dress, making it look like I don’t have anything on beneath. He heaves out a sigh like he’s endured something.

It’s a text from Layla. LAYLA: Best I ever had. I grin.

I can kiss her in the rain without catching feelings. Well, I guess I can kiss her in the rain without catching any more feelings than I already have.

“I’ve never—no one has ever made me come, Caleb.” The tomato in my hand goes flying halfway across the kitchen.

Layla and I stare at it. A minute goes by in complete silence. Then another. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that,” she mumbles under her breath. “No. No, I’m just—” Reeling a bit. Having a medical event, more likely.

“Is that something you want?” Her eyebrows slant low. “What do you mean?” “The point of our arrangement is for us to practice, yeah? We could practice this too. You could tell me what you want.” I swallow. “We could work together to figure out what you need and how you need it.”

“Because I want to watch you come undone,” I tell her, my voice a rough scratch. I look up and make sure I’m holding her eyes. “Because I want to be the one to do it.”

“I like to work for it,” he whispers against my ear.

“You want to know how good you feel?” “Yes.” “You want to hear how I’m breaking apart, getting to see you like this?”

He tells me how already he can’t wait to do this again, all of my clothes stripped off so he can watch my blush paint my skin pink. “Just one of your pretty scarves,” he mumbles with his mouth on the hollow of my throat, his pinky edging under the hem of my underwear. “Nothing else.”

“How do you know?” she mumbles into my shirt. I breathe out, low and slow, and then take a leap and make a confession. “February seventeenth.” She sighs, a little puff of warm air somewhere over my sternum. “What happened on February seventeenth?” “I bought a cake.”

I’m standing on a ledge here, hoping— I don’t know what I’m hoping for. I guess I’m just hoping.

My suspicion deepens. “What do you think it means?” “Does it have to mean something?” He shrugs. “Maybe there’s no news.” I level him with a look. Oh, sweet Caleb.

my arms still locked around Caleb’s waist. I want him to carry me to the car exactly like this. I want him to drive me home with me wrapped around him like a koala. “That’s illegal, sweetheart,” he whispers into my hair, another smile in his voice. I guess I said that out loud. “Seat belts are important.” “I can be your seat belt,” I slur.

I try to picture Caleb with a little rescue dog who loves pizza crusts. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of me. That’s just what I need. Another reason to be attracted to the man.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Beckett grumbles. “I thought you were a vampire.” Beckett came in through the back door that night, and I rolled right off the shelf. I think we both screamed at each other for close to seven minutes. No words, just incoherent shrieking.

Opening my eyes feels like a monumental effort. “Will you hold my hand?” My voice slurs around the edges. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’ll hold your hand.”

I listen to her try to collect herself and almost lose my fucking mind in the process. “What is it?” “There’s—” Her breath hiccups, and she lets out another shaky sigh. I charge through my house like I’m on my way to commit a felony. Which I might, as soon as I figure out what the hell is going on.

“It’s Layla,” I shout before she can shut her door in my face. “She has her interview with the magazine today, and she lost power. She needs an extra set of hands.” It’s sort of incredible, the way Beatrice doesn’t hesitate. She pulls a set of keys out of a hidden pocket in her dress and turns the lock on the front door. She hustles down the stone steps and practically flies into the passenger side of the Jeep, leveraging herself up with the handle above the door. She buckles her seat belt and gives me an impatient look, her hand thrust forward out the window. “What the hell are you waiting for, then? Let’s go.”

His grandmother arrived shortly after he left with a fleet of his cousins. She took one look at my face, grabbed both of my cheeks in her weathered hands, and said something fierce and determined in Spanish. She then smacked me on the ass and told me to chop some strawberries. So I chopped the strawberries.

I wanted Caleb. And he had shown up. Immediately. With his shirt on inside out and backward, the tag just under his chin. Sleep-rumpled and wearing two different shoes, he showed up for me.

If anyone has questions about why Beatrice and I are suddenly working together, they don’t say a word. Maybe our portrayed rivalry isn’t as fierce as I thought. Perhaps I should bodycheck her into the jam display the next time we’re at the grocery store together, just to reinforce the narrative. She’d get a kick out of that.