Chapter 16
Michelle
he inn is packed. With two days before Halloween, people were bound to travel here. And not only the honeymoon couple, but two otherT families as well. There are only three guest rooms in the whole house, but they’re at the most capacity we can manage.
“Okay, I’ve got the blowup mattress ready to go,” I say to a mother who looks run ragged. “And I put Power Rangers bedsheets on it, so there’s no question on who’s sleeping on it.” I nod to her twin boys zooming through the parlor with an action figure held high. “You’ll get the main bed.”
She exhales. “You’re a saint, Birdie.”
Chills skitter across my arms when she shakes my hand.
“Oh.” I freeze. “Birdie is my mother actually. I’m Michelle.”
The woman runs a palm down her cheek, pulling the skin around her eye with it. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’ve barely slept in days.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, forcing a laugh.
The mistake was bound to happen. We haven’t updated all the signage and innkeeper information. Maybe it’s a good thing it happened so late in the month, when I’ve been here long enough to be okay with it. But it doesn’t ease the squeezing in my chest.
The phone in the kitchen rings, so I shove through the swinging door.
Emily and Brittany sit at the breakfast nook with papers scattered around them—Brittany with a Lisa Frank coloring page and Emily with her homework. I trip over Rocket’s dog bed, basically stumbling to the phone.
Emily looks up. Dark circles run under her eyes.
“Are you okay?” I ask her, the phone blaring beside me.
“Yeah.”
“Em?”
She slouches. “Josh hasn’t called today.”
“Oh, I’m so—” The phone rings again, and I groan. “One second.” I pluck the phone from its cradle. “Thank you for calling Bird & Breakfast.
This is —”
“Shells!”
My sister’s voice sends my heart flying into my throat, followed immediately by guilt. I cannot remember the last time we talked.
“Sara,” I say on a breath. It’s funny how the distraction of the inn made me completely forget about everything else.
“Is this a bad time?” she asks.
“No, no, it’s a perfect time,” I lie.
Emily lays down her pencil and raises a judging eyebrow. I raise both of mine in return.
“It’s a full house over here,” I amend. “Halloween, you know.”
“Oh, cool,” Sara says.
I hear a leather couch squeaking on her end of the line. She’s settling in, which means this might be an hour-long phone call if I’m not careful.
Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem—we haven’t spoken in a week or two— but my back is aching, and the arches of my feet are screaming from hurrying around the house all day.
“Yeah, it’s pretty packed, Sara,” I say.
Emily’s eyes widen.
I cover the phone with my palm and whisper, “It’s my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Who is that?” Sara asks.
I fiddle with my earring and squeeze my eyes shut. “Sorry, that’s Cliff’s
daughter.”
“Hot Neighbor?”
“Is she from Seattle too?” Emily asks.
“Yes,” I answer both of them.
“Ooh. Shells, so you do think he’s hot?”
“Sara. He’s not—” But I don’t finish because, well, that’s not exactly a
bridge I want to cross.
Sara gasps at my silence. “Oh snap.”
“Can I ask her why boys suck?” Emily chimes in with a scowl.
“You can ask me that,” I say.
Sara laughs. “Ask you what? If you think he’s hot?”
“Sara,” I warn again, “he’s only a friend.”
Emily gasps this time. “Are you talking about my dad?”
I point a finger at her. “Hang on a second.”
“Me?” Sara asks.
“No, not you.”
“Not me?” Emily asks.
“Stop being difficult.”
Sara laughs. “Me?”
“No!”
I slouch against the wall right as the kitchen door swings in. One of the guest’s twin boys sneaks in for a snack.
Thankfully, Emily stands, gives me a thumbs-up, and silently nudges him back into the parlor with a, “Where’s your mommy?”
Beyond the door, a hum of indiscernible conversation continues, but it’s muffled enough for me to take in a breath.
“Sorry,” I say into the phone with an exhale. “It’s a little chaotic here.”
“Sounds like you’re chillin’ though.”
“I guess. The place is running at least.”
Emily pokes her head in the door. “Can you ask her —”
“Em!” I snap with a laugh. “Give me a second!”
Emily grins, knowing she’s hamming it up. She disappears on the other side of the door.
“That teen is gonna kill me,” I murmur to Sara, sighing and rolling my head back against the wall. My sister is quiet for a moment on the other line, to the point that I have to ask, “Sara, you there?”
“You sound happy, Shells.”
I let out a strained laugh. “Do I? Because I feel stressed.”
“You like being busy and stuff. And you sound like you’ve got friends.”
“Right. Who wouldn’t want a sixteen-year-old friend?” I deadpan.
“No, you called her dad your friend.”
I slide the pendant over my necklace chain. “Oh. Well … because he is.”
“I can’t wait to meet him!”
“Are you guys coming in town?”
“Yeah, Dad’s talked about it.”
I freeze on the spot, licking my bottom lip and squeaking my shoes together. I haven’t asked about Dad once. I disappeared into Copper Run, like
I’d intended. But now, I’ve gotten lost in the woods, so enraptured by making the inn thrive, immersing myself in Copper Run, and getting tangled in work,
like I always do.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Better. No more show reruns. He’s going on walks.”
I let out a breath. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s been great,” she says. “So, I was thinking I could come over when
my school is on Thanksgiving break.”
“That would be great.”
“And I could meet Hot Dad Neighbor.”
I laugh, but it fades off. “You know what? You’d probably really get along with him. He’s funny. I think he might like blondes.” I don’t know why that left my mouth. It was so quick, like a jumble of words I basically tripped over.
Cliff is my friend. He hasn’t dated since he divorced two years ago. My sister is like bottled sunbeam. He needs a bit more sunshine.
“Really?” Sara asks. “Nothing is going on between you two?”
My chest tightens. “No. Seriously, nothing is going on.”
“I mean, if he’s cute,” Sara says on a giggle, “I wouldn’t say no.”
“I’ll ask him about it then.”
I’ve never set up a friend with my sister before. I’ve never had a guy friend available to even consider it. Maybe that’s why my stomach is churning. For my lack of matchmaking skills. I don’t want my sister to get hurt, and I don’t want Cliff to get hurt either.
The kitchen door swings open, and Carol pokes her head in.
“God, it’s too loud out there,” she says, already removing her pack of
smokes from her pocket.
“Where’s Cliff?” I ask.
“At the bakery,” she says, fumbling the pack open and frowning. “We closed early. He has lots of last-minute Halloween party orders.”
I smirk. “Can’t help himself.”
“No, but”—Carol tosses the empty pack in the trash and settles at the table with Brittany—“I’m here to relieve you of your babysitting duties.”
The door bursts in again, and this time, it’s the woman with the two boys.
“I’m so sorry. What was your name again? It wasn’t Birdie, but —”
“Michelle,” I say quickly.
“I’m so sorry, Michelle. Are there towels upstairs?”
“Yes—”
“I’ve got it,” Carol chimes in, walking through the door before I can argue.
“I’m gonna call you back in a couple of days,” Sara says in the phone.
I blink back to our conversation. “No, wait —”
“Yes. You’re busy. I’m hanging up now. Don’t argue. I love you.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. The tight coil in my chest is pulling taut with heat springing all the way down to my fingertips.
“Love you,” I answer, and the moment I do, I hear the dial tone.
I hang up the phone right as Carol walks in with Lisa and Emily on her heels.
Lisa touches my shoulder, her eyes like tiny marbles behind her thick
glasses. “How’s it been today?”
“Hectic,” I answer.
“Big families?”
“Big families,” I echo. My stomach rumbles, and I place a hand over it.
“Ugh. I think I forgot to eat lunch.”
Carol’s eyes shift from my stomach, to me, then to Lisa. She and Lisa
exchange a knowing nod.
“Get out of here,” Lisa demands.
I lift an eyebrow. “What?”
“Go,” Carol throws in. “Get a sandwich at Betty’s or something.”
I snort. “I can’t leave.”
“Yes, you can,” she says. “Get away from this house for an hour. We’ve got this. Emily too.”
Emily gawks. “Wait, I’m working? But what if Josh calls?”
Carol nudges her and nods to me. “Go, Michelle. I’m kicking you out.
How about this? You’ll be helping me because”—she digs in her pocket and pulls out a five-dollar bill—“you can buy me another pack. See? Helping.”
Lisa sniffs. “Carol, dear, that’s a terrible habit.”
I lift an eyebrow. “I’m not supporting it either.”
“You both sound like Cliff,” she says dully. But she waves the five at me anyway. “Go. Now.”
My feet knew where to go before I did. Ten minutes after leaving the inn, I knock on the locked glass door to Burke’s Bakery.
I tuck my hands in my leather jacket pockets and look out at the square while I wait. The park is prepped for trick-or-treaters this Friday. Black wrought iron fences line the sidewalk with speared pumpkins, and plastic skeletons lounge in the gazebo rocking chairs. Papier-mâché ghosts glide from tree branches, bumping into the sparse leaves of maroon and gold.
Seattle Halloween and Copper Run Halloween couldn’t be more different. Instead of honking cars, there are whistling breezes. There aren’t secret, invite-only spooky parties, but instead, the entire town is a celebration, complete with yard themes and businesses covering their glass windows from top to bottom in Frankensteins or witches.
I’m not accustomed to feeling the holiday spirit like this.
The bakery’s glass door swings out with a ding. Cliff leans on the doorframe. His hair is wild. Its usual color of fallen autumn leaves is now flaked with specks of powdered sugar—probably from the same incident that caused the hand resting on the doorjamb to be coated as well. His apron is stained with what I assume is orange and white icing. Beneath it, he only wears a white T-shirt. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in anything less than long sleeves. Somewhere in the back, a radio blasts some Billboard Hot 100 alt rock song I hear too often, but can never name.
The crease beside Cliff’s mouth deepens, and a half smile slinks onto his lips. “What a pleasant surprise.”
I duck under his arm and walk inside. “I got kicked out by your sister.”
Cliff chuckles, snicking the door shut behind us and securing the dead bolt. The overhead lights in the bakery lobby are turned off. Only beams of fluorescents bleed out from the back. The place smells incredible, like vanilla and cinnamon spice and cakes. It smells like Cliff.
“What did you do this time?” he asks.
“My job.”
“Ah, don’t you know that Carol hates people who work?”
He follows me to the kitchen, where I halt on sight. It’s a disorganized mess. The steel prep table is overwhelmed by thrown-aside icing piping bags, used cookie cutters, an explosion of sugar, and trays of cupcakes with heat rising from their puffed tops.
“Impressed by my disaster?” Cliff asks. “If Carol could kick me out of this bakery, I guarantee she would.”
“Why can’t she?”
He leans closer and growls out, “Because nobody bakes like I do.”
His cocky smile lifts at the edge of his mouth as he bypasses me with his hard chest brushing against my back. I stiffen in place. His ability to say things and have them be confident like that is pure talent.
“You look busy,” I say.
“It doesn’t only look that way,” he responds. “I am.”
“How can I help?”
“You work addict,” he teases right as the oven beeps. He nods his chin toward it. “Wanna get that?”
I do as he said. I notice him watching, leaning against the table with his arms crossed as his eyes rove over my shoulders and arms.
“I like your hair like that.”
“O-oh,” I stammer out. “Uh, with my hair pulled back?”
“Yeah, you look good.”
“It’s just my hair.”
“That and the way you’re pulling the pan out of the oven,” he says. “You look like a natural. You’re not burning yourself at least.”
“As far as you know.”
He absentmindedly points out a rack I can set the tray on as he pushes off the prep table. Cliff stalks closer, reaching out to trace his hand over my elbow. His thumb strokes over the faint burn above the crease in my arm.
Goose bumps roll over me as I swallow.
“It’s mostly faded,” he observes.
“It’s gonna be red for a while, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Maybe forever. It’s a battle scar. We all get them.”
I roll my eyes. “You? The professional baker?”
“Professional? Please.”
He rolls up the short sleeves of his T-shirt and holds out his arms, flipping the undersides out for display. I’ve never noticed the faded imperfections along his skin. His arms have always been hidden beneath sweaters or partially rolled-up flannel, but now, I see a line or two along his upper arms —curving with strong biceps I’ve also never seen—and one faded scar close to his muscled shoulder.
“Wow. I’m truly in the baker club,” I say.
He scoffs out a laugh. “I’ll get you a membership card. They’re edible.”
I grin and roll my eyes.
Cliff jerks his sleeves back down. He grabs a new sheet of parchment paper and tosses flour on top before taking whatever he recently rolled and spreading it out again. I watch his hands knead and stroke. His wrist twists when he reaches for one of the abandoned icing containers. It’s funny how Cliff’s chaotic energy seems to get laser-focused when he’s working on a
prep table.
“Yes?” Cliff asks.
I jump. “What?”
“You think very loud. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“You have.”
“Ah,” he says, throwing me a knowing smirk. “By the way, see the little box over there? I’ve got a new weird baker thing for you.”
I grin. I’m starting to look forward to his weird baker things.
I open the box. Inside is a diamond-shaped pastry, folded in the middle over a thin layer of what looks like jam. Powdered sugar is sprinkled on top.
It looks delectable. Cliff doesn’t need to instruct me to taste; I already have it halfway to my mouth.
One bite is enough to likely rival any food that could exist in heaven. I
inhale and exhale.
“Cliff—”
“Good?” he asks.
“One of your best.”
I gently place it back in the box, but that only makes him sigh.
I wipe my lips with a spare napkin. “You seem like you’re never satisfied.”
“Because I’m not,” he answers matter-of-factly. “So, how was your day?”
“You’re gonna change the subject like that?”
“I am. Busy day?”
I know there’s no redirecting once Cliff has his mind set, so instead, I nod and follow his lead. “Yeah. I got a call from my sister.”
“Bad news?”
“No. She and my dad will be here for Thanksgiving.”
“Paulie!” Cliff calls out to nobody. “Miss that guy.”
Paulie. Birdie.
I close my eyes. God, that woman called me by my mom’s name.
Why did that feel so … weird?
The radio’s song changes to some other vague popular rock ballad. I cross
one of my boots over the other and continue watching him roll dough. I sigh.
Cliff randomly laughs and squints at me. “So, do you want to talk about
what’s bothering you?”
My head jerks up. “Hmm? No.”
He pops his lips. “Fair enough then.”
“That’s it?”
He pushes the heel of his palm into the dough and shrugs. “Well, if you want to keep it to yourself, that’s your business. Not mine.”
I open my mouth, then shut it, trying to process this new logic.
This is so different from how Allen insisted I talk. Now, when I tell Cliff that I don’t want to, he lets me exist in the way that makes sense for me. I don’t know how to handle that type of understanding. Ironically, it makes me want to talk more. Maybe that’s what Cliff wants. Maybe it’s reverse psychology. But something tells me it isn’t.
“Actually, yes.” I change my answer. “I want to talk about what’s bothering me.”
Cliff stops working and slaps his palms together, sending flour up in a cloud. He smiles. “My attention is all yours, Michelle.”
I roll my head to the side, inhale, and say, “Someone called me Birdie
today.”
His face falls. “Oh.”
“It’s fine.”
“How did you feel about it?”
I shrug. “I think it reminded me that I’m managing her inn.”
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks.
“No,” I admit. “I’ve been running on autopilot. I forgot that a world exists outside of this one. I’ve been”—my eyes catch on his forearms and how they pop out from being folded over his broad chest before looking away —“distracted.” Quickly, I add, “It was weird, hearing about her again.”
Even though I bounce my eyes to every place possible, clenching and unclenching my grip on my elbows, Cliff’s eyes remain steady on me.
“I wish I knew more about her life here,” I continue. “That I had more of the memories of her that you have. Maybe more pictures.”
“Don’t tell Brittany that.” He snorts. “I already told her about the camera idea.”
“Now, she won’t stop talking about it?” I ask.
“All the time,” he groans. “So, what do you want to know about Birdie?”
The question guts me. It’s like I snuck out of the serious conversation, and now, I’m being nudged back in.
I hesitate before asking, “Was she kind?”
“Incredibly.”
“She looked after Brittany?”
“Like she was her own grandkid.”
I smile. “I used to love seeing her with Sara.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I muse. I rest my hip on the wall beside me. “They’d run around the yard together all the time. Mom always had rose bushes, even at the house we grew up in. Sara would pluck them out, and Mom would get so angry. But it was all pretend, you know? Nobody actually stays angry with
Sara,” I admit with a smile.
“And where were you?” Cliff asks.
My eyes jerk to his. “What do you mean?”
“While they were playing outside with roses, where were you?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Inside. Reading maybe.”
“You didn’t want to go outside?”
My face falls, and I swallow. “I never really felt invited.”
“That doesn’t sound like Birdie.”
“It was complicated. She was sad a lot when I was little. But when Sara came, it all seemed to make sense again. She was a breath of life into our family. I can’t explain it.”
“I like how you talk about your sister,” he says.
“She’s my favorite person in the world,” I admit.
The gentle smile that spreads over his lips sends a warmth trailing over me, rising up my neck to my cheeks.
“I think that’s enough feelings talk from me right now,” I murmur.
He nods. “Fair enough.”
“Your turn,” I say, nudging my boot out, as if prompting him. “You have
enough feelings for the both of us.”
He barks out a laugh. “Do I?”
“Oh, yes. I bet you’d cry at the drop of a hat.”
“Maybe I would,” he admits. “Let’s see … what do you want to know?”
“How are you?”
“How am I?” he asks back. “Huh. I don’t know. The bakery is exploding.
Emily has a boyfriend. And Brittany keeps telling me she wants to be a
wrestler. So, you could say I’m a little more stressed than usual. And Trace is …” He pauses. “I don’t know. Concerned, I guess. Typical mom stuff.”
I slide my pendant across the necklace, twisting and trying to think of what to say to that. I never know how to react when he brings up Tracy. They were together for so long that anything I might say feels inappropriate. How could my five years of marriage compare to his fourteen?
“She’s a good person,” he continues. “Things are”—he sighs —“complicated.” Cliff throws me a weak smile. “But, hey”—he huffs a laugh—“I have no room to talk. I’m exhausting.”
My face falls. “No, you’re not.”
He shoots me a look, and I shrug.
“I mean, yes, but … it’s an exhausting that makes you, you. I think most people like it.”
He lets out a heavy exhale. “Listen, I’ve been told most of my life that there’s a lot of me to go around. You don’t need to be nice about it.”
“Well, if you’re exhausting, so am I,” I say. “High maintenance.
Argumentative. Abrasive. According to my ex, boring.” I scoff.
“First off, never call yourself that,” he says sternly with a pointed finger.
“And second, what I’m hearing are other words. Classy. Opinionated. And intimidating to people who can’t handle strong women. Which I really like
about you.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m closed off.”
“You open up to people you like.”
“I don’t like anyone.”
“Yes, you do. You like me.”
My chest stutters, and I curl my lips in. “Sometimes,” I tease.
“Sometimes is better than not at all.”
The song changes on the radio again. I recognize it this time. It’s not difficult to place Eddie Vedder’s mumbled crooning. I sway to it a little, but I instantly freeze when I catch Cliff gazing at me with the corner of his mouth
tilted up.
“What?”
“Want to dance?” he asks.
“To what? Pearl Jam?”
The rest of Cliff’s smile spreads over his face. “Yes.”
I scoff. “We are not going to slow dance to Pearl Jam.”
“Oh, yes, we are.”
He slowly walks over to where I lurk. He tucks a palm into my elbow so that I release my crossed arms, sliding one of my hands into his and wrapping the other around my lower back. I suck in a breath when he tugs me closer and lowers his cheek down to meet the side of mine.
And then we sway.
Eventually, he takes a step forward, and I take one back. He steps to the side, and I follow. I’m being guided through a dance. I hate being guided. But with Cliff, it doesn’t feel like he’s taking control. He’s moving with me in tandem. It’s a dance that takes two—not the overwhelming power of one.
“I remember the first time I heard this song,” he murmurs, his warmth breath tickling my ear. I can feel it down to my neck. “I was driving Emily to the doctor. She was coughing up a storm. Poor kid was miserable, and I was at the end of my rope. Hadn’t slept in days. But when this came on the radio, it was like her coughing suddenly stopped. I don’t know how to explain it.
She says she remembers that night too. Or maybe I’ve told the story so many
times that it feels real to her.”
“I like that story,” I whisper.
“Mmm. It’s a great song and all, but that kind of memory should have been associated with … I don’t know … something other than Eddie
Vedder.”
I snicker. “Want to know a secret?”
“A Michelle secret? Finally.”
“I actually love this song.” He chuckles against my neck, and I continue,
“Allen hated this song.”
“Who could possibly hate this song?”
“It’s funny; we met when I was twenty-three, and it didn’t matter what it was … if I liked it, it was too young for him. Too childish.”
“You? Childish?”
“He also hated Pretty in Pink. Don’t even get me started on that.”
“How old was this guy?”
“Allen is twelve years older than me.” Cliff remains silent, and a little part of me is embarrassed. “I think I liked that he was … an adult, you know?
That I didn’t have to take care of him like I did my mom or my sister. That maybe I could be taken care of.” I breathe out a laugh. “Is that stupid?”
Cliff squeezes me closer to him. “Not even a little bit. You deserve to be taken care of, Michelle.”
I swallow down his words. “And the woman who called me … she
couldn’t have been more than twenty-two either. Maybe he didn’t like that I’d gotten older. I don’t know.”
Cliff laughs again, but it doesn’t feel like it’s at my expense. The sound rumbles through me, over my shoulders and down my spine, where it settles into his palm, like he’s holding my nerves close. Protecting them.
“I don’t … I don’t think I was surprised when I learned he’d cheated,” I admit. “And honestly, I don’t even miss him all that much. I miss … noise.
It’s so quiet, being alone.”
Cliff gently sets his thumb and forefinger on my chin, slowly rotating me
to face him.
“It goes away,” he says.
My lips part as I whisper out a breathy, “I hope so.”
“Tell me another secret,” he murmurs, the question humming in my ear.
“I’ve got too many,” I admit. “I don’t know where to start.”
“I’ll take any I can get.”
“I want to know more about you.”
He chuckles. “Your secret is that you want to know about me?”
“Why didn’t it work out between you and Tracy?”
Cliff is suddenly silent.
I cringe. My face burns red hot.
I wheeze out a laugh. “See? I’m abrasive.”
He removes my hand from his, but instead of walking away, he pushes my elbows up so my arms wrap over his shoulders. He pulls me closer to his chest. “Don’t say that,” he demands.
I link my hands behind his neck, and all I can think to say is, “Okay,” because the shakiness in his tone felt painful. Like he’s angry the word left my mouth.
“What happened is that, one day, Tracy decided she didn’t want to be here anymore,” he confesses. “Simple as that. Said she’d been thinking about it a long time. Even before we had Brittany.”
“How old was Brittany when you split?”
“Three,” he answers. “I was surprised when she said she wanted to try for another, especially since Emily was getting old enough that we could do more things. Have a bit more freedom we hadn’t gotten as teen parents. But Trace said she wanted to try for a kid that was planned this time. And who was I to say no? I loved being a dad.
“But after Brittany, it was like whatever she was looking for still wasn’t
there. Then, she sat me down one day and said she didn’t like me anymore.
Not love—I distinctly remember that. She didn’t like me. I asked how long she knew she didn’t like me, and she said maybe she never did.”
I feel a small prick in my heart. An uneasiness. Who could say that to a
person? Who could say that to Cliff?
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
He lets out a sardonic laugh. “You didn’t say it. I know I talk in jokes.
I’m sarcastic and generally not serious. I’m difficult to like.”
The sentence doesn’t feel like they’re his words. They’re Tracy’s. These thoughts were planted years ago with time to sprout, and now, they’re rooted in him.
“You’re very easy to like, Cliff,” I say. “I was serious. I don’t like most people. But you were right; I do like you. So, don’t apologize for your jokes
now. I enjoy them.”
He snorts. “Don’t go soft on me.”
“Fine. No compliments for your jokes ever again as long as you keep
telling them.”
He chuckles. “Deal.”
I let my head fall to his shoulder. His palm cradles the back of my head, his fingers massaging through my hair. Warm. Gentle.
“I can’t believe we’re dancing to this stupid song,” I say on an exhale.
“I can’t believe I actually got you to do it.”
I laugh a little, and then he does. He hugs me tighter, and I bury my head into the crook of his neck more. I can smell the vanilla and cinnamon on him, but also that unique citrus cologne underneath—the secret Cliff hides beneath all his walls.
He strokes my back. I know Cliff is only touching me out of habit. That’s how he operates, no matter who the person is. But part of me wants Cliff to touch me because I’m me.
I lift my head slightly, and he leans his cheek against mine.
“You should get back to work,” I whisper.
“I should,” he murmurs back.
“Thanks for the secrets.”
“Thanks for the company.”
I lean back, but my arms don’t fall from his neck. His hands drift down to my waist, his thumbs running a circle over my ribs. My index finger finds its way to the hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes dart to my lips and back up. I
can’t calm my nerves when he looks at me like that. My heart is beating erratically, and with my chest pressed against his, I can feel his pulse thundering too.
I hear myself swallow. I can see every shimmer in his blue eyes, every small speck of hazel within. I feel how deeply they see through me, rattling me to my core, pinning my feet exactly where they stand. My heart claws its way up my throat, and maybe … maybe … A loud knock booms on the bakery door. I jump, but Cliff doesn’t move.
His hand pauses on my waist. His eyes search mine, but I’m not sure what
he’s looking for.
A fist knocks against the glass again.
I blink and step out of his arms. “You might want to —”
“Yeah,” he interrupts, running a palm through his hair and striding out of the kitchen to the front.
The bell above the door dings as Cliff rips it open.
“Mr. Burke —”
“Josh,” Cliff announces.
I walk to the bakery’s lobby, watching the color slowly drain from Josh’s face as his eyes dart between the two of us.
“How wonderful to see you,” Cliff continues through gritted teeth. “How can I help you?”
“I didn’t know if Emily was here. She didn’t stop by, like she usually does.”
“She’s at the inn,” I interject, somehow out of breath. “She’s been waiting on your call.”
“Crap, I knew it,” he whines. “My mom has been hogging the phone. She got some radio sweepstakes thing.”
“Shame,” Cliff says, but he seems disconnected from the conversation as much as I am.
I’m so lost in what happened. Whatever it was. If it was anything at all.
One minute, we were dancing, and the next, I’m so nervous. I’ve never been this nervous around Cliff.
“I’ll go find her at the inn,” Josh says.
“Front door is unlocked,” I say.
“Thanks. Oh, and, Mr. Burke?”
Cliff’s eyes squeeze shut. “Yes, Josh?”
“Can I … can you tell me what her favorite dessert is? I figure … I don’t
know … I’d like to find out how to make it or something.”
Cliff’s shoulders deflate, and he nods, breathing out, “Apple fritter.”
“Apple fritter, apple fritter …” Josh repeats.
“I’ll give you my recipe.”
“Thanks, dude. I mean, Mr.—”
“Call me Cliff.”
I swear the boy’s grin gets so big and energized that it could power the entire town of Copper Run.
“Thanks, Cliff. I’ll, uh, be seeing you.”
The bakery door shuts, and Cliff slowly turns on his squeaking boots. He tucks his hands in his pockets as his gaze trails from my hair, down to my lips, and back up. He’s taking me in, and even though he’s always looked at me like that—with a stare that sees through me—I’ve never felt more exposed than I do in this moment.
My face flushes red, and I can feel heat everywhere. Not in my cheeks or my chest, but down to my stomach and dangerously lower.
“I’ve got to get back,” I blurt out. “Lisa and Carol are probably overwhelmed.” I dig in my pocket and hold up her five-dollar bill. “She gave me money to get her a pack.”
He swallows and forces out a laugh, looking down at his shoes instead of at me. “Oh. Well, definitely don’t do that.”
“Didn’t plan on it,” I respond. I place it on the counter. “I’ll tell her I lost it.”
Cliff grins. “I’ll sneak it back into her purse tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
I bypass him without another word and push out the door. Behind me, the dead bolt locks.
I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to know if he’s watching me walk away. I don’t want to potentially see his subtle smile rise up the corner of his mouth. I don’t need to feel my heart beating faster. And I definitely don’t need to confirm my newest secret.
I like Cliff Burke. Like, like, as Emily might say.
I like his deadpan humor and his messy, complicated life. I like the fact that he needs touch as much as he needs oxygen. I like that he says what he wants and takes what he wants and doesn’t apologize for either. I like that, at the end of the day, he’s my friend.
I like Cliff Burke. And this charming guy who has the entire small town
wrapped around his finger? I know he could never like an abrasive woman like me.
