Mixed Signals
About this book
Layla Dupree makes the food that helps Lovelight Farms feel welcoming, but her own dating history has offered little reason for confidence. Caleb Alvarez is equally dissatisfied with the role other people expect him to play.
Their experiment has clear terms: he plans thoughtful dates, she gives honest feedback, and neither pretends it must become permanent. Repeated care makes the arrangement more revealing than either expected, especially when insecurity turns praise into something difficult to accept.
Borison uses the dating lessons to distinguish performance from attention. Grand gestures matter less than learning how the other person moves through work, family, and a body that has too often been judged before it was known.
Mixed Signals is the third Lovelight novel. It is a warm friends-to-lovers romance about rebuilding trust through ordinary reliability rather than finding a flawless partner.
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From the opening
Chapter One
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 in 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 glass 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 blonde 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.
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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. “Woah, 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 back 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 towards 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.”
Chapter Two
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 towards 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.
What sort of voodoo is this Hawaiian shirt?
His eyes flick briefly over my green dress and his smile melts into something earnest and sincere, the faint pink on his cheeks deepening into a rich, ruby red. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I manage, resisting the urge to clear my throat. I don’t think Bryce told me once that I looked nice tonight, beyond his comment about me being prettier than my profile picture let on. And what a compliment that was.
I put effort into tonight. I wore my mint green dress with the thin straps, a slit in the side up to my thigh. I wanted to look nice. To feel pretty and cherished and desired.
And I wasted all of it on Bryce.
“Are you here with Stella and Beckett?”
I amuse myself for a moment with the mental image of Beckett, our resident grumpy head farmer, frowning with a coconut drink in his hand. But then I finger the strap of my dress and let out a blustery sigh, glancing back over to the table I abandoned. “I’m here on a date. Well, I guess I was on a date.”
Because Bryce is nowhere to be seen. Our table is empty and I swear some of the silverware is missing. My dessert plate, too.
Asshole.
Caleb is confused. “With, uh, with yourself?”
“No. With a big ol’ turd who dines and dashes, apparently.” I frown as I think about what will inevitably be a very long and very expensive Lyft back to Inglewild. “Shoot. He picked me up for dinner.”
“And he left?” Caleb’s face turns into a storm cloud. His jaw clenches, dimples evaporating as quickly as they appeared.
“Believe me,” I offer. “This is an improvement.”
I cannot imagine sitting in Bryce’s car for the thirty-minute drive back to Inglewild, staring balefully at the hamster bobblehead on the dash. He’d probably play Ace of Base. Or worse, Nickelback.
“He shouldn’t have left you,” is all Caleb says, still staring unseeingly at the empty table. He looks like he’s about to charge out in the parking lot and exact some vigilante justice. The thought is oddly delightful.
“It’s all right. I’ll just grab a Lyft home.” I turn to look at Celia still standing behind the bar, her eyes darting back and forth between Caleb and I. “I’ll take that extra slice to go, I think.”
“Hold on a sec.” Caleb wraps his long fingers right above my elbow and squeezes once. His touch is gentle, his palm warm. “I’ll drive you back.”
“No, no. That’s okay.” I look over to the far end of the bar where Alex is being dipped by his dancing partner, both of them laughing so hard they can barely stand up. Their table is surrounded by a collection of people in various matching Hawaiian shirts. The entire Alvarez family, I finally realize. Their uncle Benjamín is wearing his shirt tied high around his waist in a weird bastardization of a crop top. I grin. “You can’t leave. It’s your brother’s birthday.”
I squint, focusing on one dark-haired man with a coconut bra at the far end of their little group. He stands a little bit taller than the rest. “Is that Charlie?”
Caleb doesn’t bother following my stare. “Yeah, it is.”
I watch as Stella’s half-brother shimmies, a drink in each hand. “He drove down from New York?”
“You know him. He never misses a party.” Caleb keeps his hand and his eyes on me. “Alex won’t remember anything past an hour ago. I promise. Let me drive you home.”
“But his drink.”
“I’ll drop it off and then we can go.”
“How will he get home?”
“We rented a Margaritaville bus.” Of course they did. Caleb gives me another bashful look, his blush deepening to a deep crimson. “He really loves a tropical theme,” he mumbles.
I roll my lips against a smile. “Will we be stealing the bus, then?”
“What? No.” He looks alarmed. “I drove separately.”
“Do you hate Jimmy Buffett?”
A smile hooks the corner of his mouth. “I think everyone hates Jimmy Buffett a little bit.”
“Except Alex.”
“Except Alex, of course.”
His smile tumbles headfirst into a grin, so bright and sudden and beautiful that I have to remind myself to breathe. Those dimples blink back to life in his cheeks and it’s a good thing he’s holding on to my arm. His thumb rubs once against the inside of my elbow—an aimless, unthinking touch. Caleb tilts his head forward and a lock of dark hair falls over his forehead. Some far recess of my mind is still whispering, what in the hell is going on?
When did Caleb Alvarez get so hot?
“If you’re sure,” I murmur.
I’m not sure. I’m probably the least sure I’ve ever been. What secret will Caleb reveal next? Can he play the harmonica? Does he also have a strange animal bobblehead on the dash of his car? Is he sneaky hot but also a terrible driver? Oh god, does he drive in silence? Does he hate music? I have no idea. I’m truly just along for the ride at this point, my mind sufficiently blown by a set of strong biceps and a shirt with rotating palm trees.
“I’m sure.” He is resolute as he uncurls his fingers from around my arm and picks up the fruity concoction in front of him. I watch the way his shirt stretches across his chest with rabid interest. I feel like I’m in an alternate dimension where the nice, unassuming guy who comes into my bakery with almost militant precision is suddenly a dreamboat in a Hawaiian shirt. “Just give me a second to talk to Alex and we’ll get going.”
He ambles away, crossing through the tables, somehow managing to not look ridiculous. I watch him go.
So does every other woman in the establishment. A few men, too.
Celia whistles low. Damn, I didn’t even realize she was still standing there. “You made quick work of that.”
I scratch once at my eyebrow and watch as Caleb attempts to extricate Alex out of his sloppy salsa routine. Alex pulls an evasive maneuver while Charlie fist-pumps aggressively. “We live in the same town. I know him.”
“I’d like to get to know him,” she mumbles under her breath.
I turn to look at her and raise both eyebrows. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
She waves her hand. “Nah. I sensed vibes.”
“There were no vibes. He’s just a really nice guy.”
The nicest. I routinely watch him help little old ladies cross the street. He volunteers every year for dig day at the farm, when residents of the town help us prep the fields for the new season. Half of the time I can’t tell if he genuinely enjoys the butter croissants he religiously orders, or if he just wants to support a local business. Stella once referred to him as chronically kind. He is sweet and funny and is never too busy to stop and help load seven 50-pound bags of sugar into the back of my hatchback.
Dane, our town Sheriff, fired him from his deputy position four months ago for being too nice. From what I hear, he accepted one too many parking ticket payments in the form of IOU’s written on the back of old receipts. I heard from Matty at the pizza shop that some of them got pretty explicit.
He’s been substitute teaching at the high school ever since.
I watch as Alex attempts to dip his older brother. All of the people gathered around the table cheer. I grin. “Like, a really nice guy.”
“Sure, sure.” Celia sets the glass she’s been polishing for close to fifteen minutes to the side. Picks up another. “I’ll make it two slices to go.”
Caleb finally wrestles Alex into a stationary position. I watch them with their heads huddled together. 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.
I make my way over to the table before he can begin launching projectiles across the beach bar. As soon as I’m close enough, he makes a spectacular swan dive off the top of the table and lands somewhere near my feet. He wraps both of his arms around my legs.
“Laylaaaaaaa,” he drags out the syllables of my name on a warble in his best Eric Clapton impersonation. “You came to my birthday party!”
I try to haul him up with my arms beneath his, but we’re impeded by the six-foot-five wall of muscle suddenly bear-hugging us both. Charlie smells like an entire shelf of liquor, his big, dumb face pressed into my shoulder.
“Layla.” He sounds suspiciously close to tears. “It’s so good to see you.”
I press my palm to his forehead and push him off me. “You saw me last weekend, you brute.”
Stella and her boyfriend Luka had dinner at their place and I had the distinct pleasure of watching my best friends and their significant others fawn over each other. Charlie left after fifteen minutes claiming a stomach ache and I concluded my evening with the best date I’ve had in months—a shiny bottle of sauvignon blanc and a plate of peanut butter fudge cookies I made myself.
“Still,” Charlie slurs. He pulls back, his big blue eyes wide as saucers. He’s wearing a coconut bra and a flower behind his ear. He looks ridiculous. “Wanna do a shot?”
Alex lets out that high pitched screech again. A chant of shots, shots, shots starts up amongst the entire Alvarez group. I feel two strong hands on my shoulders, gently guiding me away from the drunk love bugs hanging all over me.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have said goodbye,” Caleb mutters. One of his uncles tries to hand him a tiny shot glass. Caleb makes a face and shakes his head, then looks overtop of my head. “Christ. I think Charlie is encouraging people to take body shots off of him.”
I don’t even want to look. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Right. Time to go.”
He holds his hand out to me, palm up.
I twist my fingers through his and together we dash through the sand.
Chapter Three
Layla
Thankfully, Caleb does not have any strange bobbleheads on the dash of his car.
Just one of the pine tree air fresheners with the Lovelight logo that Stella started selling at the farm a couple of months ago. An old newspaper wedged between the center console and the driver’s seat. A box from my bakery that he tries to hide as soon I slip into his Jeep.
I stare at him as he gets situated in the driver’s seat, adjusting the air vents so they blow on my legs and not my face. He checks his rear view and side mirrors and I smile. Of course Caleb checks his mirrors every time he gets in the car. I bet he knows his tire pressure, too.
I narrow my eyes and watch him, a restless feeling under my skin.
“Did you get a haircut?”
He drags his fingers through his hair, self-conscious. “No.”
“Did you grow, maybe? Taller?”
He snorts. “I haven’t grown an inch since I turned eighteen.” He narrows his eyes right back at me. “Why?”
“A nose job?”
He looks offended. “No.”
“Hip replacement?”
He laughs at that. “No. What’s gotten into you?”
“You just seem . . . different, is all.” Hotter, my brain screams at me. Level-ten attractive. I swear on my butter and jam baguettes that I have never noticed Caleb looking like . . . this . . . before. A passing attraction, maybe. An—oh, he’s cute—in an unassuming sort of way.
This is . . . not cute.
This is violently attractive.
I’m rattled by it.
I settle back into my seat and watch as Caleb continues adjusting his driver settings like he’s about to launch us into space.
It’s the Hawaiian shirt.
It has to be.
“I’m surprised.”
He gives me a hesitant look out of the corner of his eye, making sure I have my seatbelt on before he guides the car out of park. I think he’s regretting offering me a ride home. “By what?”
“That you didn’t want to take the Margaritaville bus.”
Another laugh rumbles out of him. Caleb’s smiles are frequent but his laughs are rare and I find myself sinking lower into my seat at the sound of it. His laugh is nice. Warm. “Nah. The lights give me a headache. Plus, I got out late from school today. I missed the bus.”
There’s irony in that statement somewhere. “How is that going? The teaching?”
“It’s good. Different. I’m learning. I’m lucky Katie Metzler decided to go on that soul searching trip in the Florida Keys.”
An odd choice for a self-discovery trip, but okay.
“The school was pretty desperate for a Spanish teacher for their summer session and they didn’t care that I basically had zero qualifications. I’m getting my certification while I fill in. Hopefully I’ll be a full-time staff member by the start of the new school year. It couldn’t have been better timing, all things considered.”
“Were you upset? With what happened at the Sheriff’s station?”
“You mean when Dane fired me?” He huffs out a laugh. “No, not at all. It was time. We both knew being a deputy wasn’t a good fit for me anymore. He only fired me so I could get the severance package.” Caleb glances at me briefly. “Maybe I should have been upset, but I don’t know. I was mainly relieved. I think I can help more people as a teacher. More kids, at least.”
Especially in our tiny town, where Caleb spent more time keeping Ms. Beatrice from using her car as a battering ram outside of her coffee shop than preventing any sort of major crime. I’m sure Dane has it handled on his own.
“Alex keeps telling me I should forget about the certification and just show the kids old reruns of the telenovela my abuela always made us watch. She never missed an episode of Corazón Salvaje.”
I grin. I see him around town with his grandma sometimes. He towers over her, and she’s usually bossing him around, making him carry her groceries. “Wild Heart?”
“That’s the one.”
I hum in consideration. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“The school board might have something to say about it.”
I snort a laugh and peer over my shoulder at his backseat. His car is tidier than the mess of crumpled receipts, old mixing bowls, and expired candy canes that litters mine. It smells like cinnamon in here, like he’s got a whole batch of gingersnaps somewhere. I reach for the edge of the pastry box half wedged beneath my seat, hoping there’s something sweet inside. I forgot my damn slices of cake at the bar, distracted by Caleb trying to herd the entire Alvarez group like a bunch of drunk cats.