Mixed Signals

¶ 1 •

Layla

"You're not what I expected."

That's a bold statement coming from the man slouched in the seat across from me. He picked me up forty-five minutes late, berated the waitstaff as soon as we got here, took two shots of-and I quote-the cheapest bourbon available, and then promptly ordered a steak without bothering to ask what I would like.

"Oh?" I indulge his attempt at conversation. It's possible that he's not as bad as he seems. I'm not sure how, but I've seen stranger things happen. Like the guy who picked me up for dinner in a horse and buggy. "How so?"

I cut my dessert into four perfectly portioned bites and try to make my face do something that resembles vague interest. He burps into his closed fist and I abandon the effort.

"Prettier," he tells me. His eyes dip down to my neckline and hold. "I had no idea you were hiding all that." He twirls his fork in my general direction. "Your profile picture doesn't do you justice."

Gross. I shovel another bite of passion fruit and coconut into my mouth.

"Probably all the baking you do, right? Those sweet treats make you thick in all the right places."

I don't even know where to start. "Yes, I own a bakery."

I own a little bakeshop tucked in the middle of a Christmas tree farm about forty miles west of here. I'm also part owner of the farm. I spend my days mixing and plating and rolling and wrapping inside of an old tractor shed that my business partner Stella and I converted into a bakery as soon as she bought the place. Big floor-to-ceiling windows. Old oak wood floors. Walls lined in cozy booths with throw pillows and blankets. It's my very favorite place in the world.

Every day I flick on the lights and set out the tables and feel like I'm living inside a snow globe. Even in the middle of the summer when the humidity is so thick it feels like I'm walking through Jell-O, the sticky heat making my hair curl. I love it. Working at Lovelight Farms is the best part of my day, and being able to go to work with my two best friends is icing on the proverbial cake.

Stella manages business operations, and Beckett keeps everything growing and thriving as head of farming. They're the kindest, loveliest people-in relationships with equally kind, lovely, beautiful people. I'm so happy they're happy, even if their so-cute-I-want-to-die relationships make me want to tip over an entire row of mini cakes in a fit of jealousy.

They have the sort of romances that dreams are made of. While I'm here with . . . Bryce.

I didn't even recognize him when he pulled up in front of my house. Our tiny tucked-away town is hard to find on a good day, and most people bypass Inglewild completely on the way to the shore. When the car pulled up in my driveway, I thought Bryce sent a Lyft driver to pick me up for the evening. But then he rolled down the window, yelled, "Hey, Layla," and I stupidly got in the passenger seat.

I should have ended it right there. I know better. He had a hamster bobblehead on his dash, for god's sake. I'm lucky I wasn't murdered.

The entire drive to the coast, I stared hard at his face. I could have sworn his profile picture was a tall brunette, and yet . . .

He drags his hand through his bottle-dyed blond hair.

And yet.

He probably thinks he looks charming sitting there like that, all lazy and loose in his seat, his knuckles beneath his chin. Unlucky for him, I'm more sexually attracted to the warm rum butter sauce on my cake at this point.

I sigh and glance over his shoulder at the bar, trying to catch the eye of our beleaguered waitress. We'd shared a commiserate look earlier when he stared too long at the hem of her skirt. I'm pretty sure it's why she brought me this slice of boozy passion fruit cake that I did not order.

I grasp for a subject change. "You said you work in Ellicott City?"

He nods, shoveling another bite of steak into his pinched mouth. He chews with his mouth open and doesn't bother finishing before he replies, bits of food flying out with his answer. I want plexiglass between us. A ten-foot wall. "Yeah. That's where my dad's law offices are."

"And you work with him?"

"I just said that, didn't I?"

All right, then. We lapse into another uncomfortable silence. He stabs at his steak, and I drag the tip of my fork against a thick layer of whipped cream. He told me he owned the law firm, organizing pro bono work across the mid-Atlantic region. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to, I guess. I sigh and cut another corner off my slice of cake.

"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.

"Annapolis," I say instead. I am so tempted to get up from my seat, walk through the tables, and step into the ocean. It sounds infinitely more appealing than another moment with Bryce.

This is the third first date I've been on this month, and I am tired. Tired of men who are entitled, small-minded, and generally disappointing. What spirit did I disrespect to curse myself with bad date after bad date? I pay my taxes. I don't leave my popcorn bucket stuffed under the seat at the movie theater. I obey traffic laws and donate to that one charity for three-legged goats that Beckett quite literally never shuts up about.

Why can't I find a single human being that I connect with? My standards are not impossible. I want someone who makes me laugh. Who cares about what I do and what I say and what I think. I want to sit on the couch with someone in blissful, perfect, comfortable silence-pizza on the coffee table and my feet tucked under their thigh. I want someone to hand me the recipe section of the local paper while they read the headlines. I want to share all of my small, silly, silent moments.

I want someone to give me butterflies.

I stare at Bryce, who lied about everything but his name, and watch as he picks at something in his teeth with his thumbnail.

Maybe that someone doesn't exist.

"Did you go to college?"

There is no curiosity in his question, just a smug satisfaction and a callous condescension. A familiar insecurity pricks at the back of my mind, a twist in my stomach that pulls tight.

"I went to Salisbury."

He laughs like I've made a joke and then reaches across the table with his fork for a bite of my cake. I don't slap his hand away, but it's a near thing. To me, dessert is sacred. "Ah, the party school. That makes sense."

I clench my teeth so hard I'm surprised my molars don't crack right in half. "What does?"

"Bakers don't need to go to serious schools, do they? It doesn't matter where you went or what you did. You probably could have gotten a degree from circus school and been just fine baking your little treats all day."

Circus school.

Little treats.

Oh, my god.

It takes me a second to collect my bearings. When I do reply, my voice is quiet fury laced with exhaustion. I am so tired.

"I graduated with honors with a dual degree in mathematics and engineering." Not that it should matter. "I'm a baker and a small business owner, and I bet I do more in an hour than you do in a day."

He scoffs.

I set my fork down on the table. This evening just rocketed to the top of my Worst Dates Ever list, and the competition is robust. I can't believe I put on my green dress for this. What a freaking waste. "I think you should go grab the check."

He holds up both hands, his eyes wide. "Whoa, don't be so sensitive. I didn't mean to offend."

I ignore him and slip another bite of coconut into my mouth. This rum sauce really is life-changing. Maybe after we wrap up here, I'll sneak into the kitchen and sweet-talk the chef into sharing his recipe. I bet he's better company than bampot Bryce.

He makes no move to get the check as requested. I whip the napkin off my lap and drop it on the table. "That's fine. I'll go settle the bill at the bar."

He rolls his eyes. "I was getting to it. You don't have to be so rude."

All right. I'm the rude one. Okay.

I push my chair back and head toward the bar at the edge of the surf. I don't usually come this far out for a date, but Bryce had been insistent about trying a new tiki bar right on the coast. Low-hanging string lights. A couple of fires burning in large, round pits. The tide rolls in behind bottles stacked on old wine barrels. Bartenders move back and forth behind a small row boat that's been flipped over and converted into bench seating.

It would be a romantic spot if my date was not a complete and total asshole.

Our waitress, Celia, waits behind the bar with her lips in a thin line, her eyes kind and understanding. She hands me the bill before I can even ask.

"Did the dessert help, at least?" she asks.

I snort a laugh and flip open the bill. "It was the best part of my evening."

"I can get you another one," she offers. When I shake my head, she makes a short contemplative sound. "I wasn't going to say anything, but that guy is a jerk. You can do better."

"Yeah, you're not wrong." Unfortunately for me, I haven't seen better on any of the dating websites I pay an unseemly monthly membership for. Bryce is pretty par for the course. "Any ideas on where to look?"

Her gaze trips over my shoulder as she pulls a thick evergreen rag out of her back pocket, shining the edge of a tumbler. Her face morphs into something glassy, appreciative, and she tilts her head behind me. "That looks like a good place to start."

¶ 2 •

Layla

I finish signing the check and follow her line of sight straight to the man effortlessly moving through the crowded tables clustered together on the beach. Not my date. Of course not. Bryce is about as memorable as a crumpled-up gum wrapper shoved in the bottom of my purse.

No, the man making his way toward us is tall. Easily over six feet. Brown, glowing, gorgeous skin. I don't get a good look at his face because he's busy looking over his shoulder at the group he just wandered away from, shouting something with a laugh. He's wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt that should be ridiculous, but with the top three buttons undone, I can only focus on the jut of his collarbones, the material of the sleeves clinging to the curve of his biceps. The fabric is stretched too tight there, like the shirt can't possibly contain the strength of him.

I stare at the dancing pineapples on his broad chest, distracted. I keep staring at them as he slides right up to the bar, next to me, and places both his hands flat on the bartop. 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.

"I'd like another piña colada, if it's not too much trouble. The birthday boy is getting antsy."

Celia looks like she'll happily give him more than a piña colada. I hide my smile behind my fingertips and finally glance at his face. I almost sputter in surprise.

"Caleb?"

Caleb Alvarez. The same man I've seen at least twice a week for the past five years without thinking about his chest once. He comes in every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and orders exactly one croissant and a coffee. Just cream.

Caleb is here, so far away from our little town.

At a beach bar.

Wearing an almost indecently unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt.

His head snaps to the side and his brown eyes widen. I watch in fascination as the deep rich brown grows warmer in recognition, a ring of amber around his iris. Never in my life have I noticed the color of this man's eyes. I'm really having a moment, taking him in like this. Hair ruffled by the ocean breeze and all that warm olive skin on display. A smile kicks up the corner of his mouth, and I have to swallow compulsively three times in a row.

"Layla," he says, a sweet combination of surprised and delighted. It's the exact same way he's always said my name, but it sounds different here with the salt and the sand. My mouth goes dry.

"Hey, Caleb." I gesture to one of the pineapples ringed in bright orange flowers on his chest. My mind is blank-wiped completely clean by three tiny buttons. "Nice shirt."

I've seen Caleb in a crewneck sweatshirt a couple of times. Worn jeans and boots that lace at the ankles. T-shirts in the summer. I never had an . . . event . . . over any of that.

He smooths his hand down the buttons, a faint pink lighting up his cheeks. "Ah, well. Alex insisted."

He jerks his chin over the tables. I follow his gaze and spot Alex Alvarez-our quiet, unassuming small-town bookstore owner-doing some drunken version of a salsa with a beautiful redhead, the both of them in equally terrifying Hawaiian shirts.

"We have a tradition," Caleb explains.

"Clearly."

"He loves a strong pattern. And a cohesive theme."

I guess that makes sense. I've seen Alex's window displays. They're always a bold look. Last Halloween, there was a town petition about the graphic interpretation of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I blink back to Caleb's shirt.

"I can see that."

"He also likes making his entire family look like a bunch of idiots in public places." Caleb curls his hand around the glass Celia slides over to him and gives her a thankful smile. We sigh in unison.

"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. "Out of all the bars."

"Yeah," I say, still distracted. My brain is trying to align this version of Caleb with the one in my head. It's . . . not working out so well.