Chapter 35
Michelle
hat’s with the Santa suit and no Santa?” I ask.“W We stand on the sidewalk, looking out at Winston’s winter wonderland yard, where every patch of grass is crowded with either a candy cane, snowman, or light-up reindeer. A loose red suit hangs from the roof.
“The myth is that he magically popped away when a kid saw him,” Cliff
explains.
“And he left his clothes?”
“Yeah,” Cliff says, tilting his head to the side curiously. “Winston’s Santa is a weird guy.”
I cock my head to the side as well, then peer over at Cliff. He smiles, reaching out, dusting snow from my hair. But the fuzz from his mitten only separates strands of hair more. I give a pursed smile. He huffs out a defeated
laugh.
“Oh, hush,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” he teases, lowering his arm to brush his fingers against my sleeve.
I press into the touch, letting it linger for longer than a normal touch should.
It’s been one week of this. Hand-holding. Stolen touches. Exchanged laughs and constant smiling. If I think about it too long, my nerves kick into my throat. It feels so real. Too real.
With Allen, it was all serious conversations and work. I think I craved the adult feeling of being wanted and respected. But with Cliff, it’s … easy. It’s
respect, accented with adoration. It’s flannels instead of suits. It’s not going to fancy parties; it’s playing in the snow.
“Are you two coming?” Emily asks.
She stands across the street, squinting and hunched with her gloves tucked in her denim jacket, as if she can scare off the flakes by appearing disgruntled enough.
Josh, on the other hand, rolls up a snowball on the ground, beaming up at her. “Hey, Em! Look! A snowman!”
Brittany and Rocket—reunited after Thanksgiving with a giggle and a bark, respectively—dart through Luke’s yard, leaving prints in the fresh snowfall. He runs after them.
“Let’s snowball fight!” Luke yells, already balling up snow in his mittens,
aimed toward Brittany.
Cliff and I exchange glances.
“Nah, let’s go inside,” he says. “I’ve got peppermint brownies to make.”
“Yes!” Emily yells, pumping the air with her fist and tugging on Josh’s coat to coax him to his feet. “I haven’t had those in forever!”
“All right, all right,” Cliff says, crunching across the street. He pulls her in for a side hug that she squirms against. “Stop yelling. Somebody’ll think I
don’t feed you or something.”
“You do?” Emily asks.
Cliff rolls his eyes and smiles. “Hardy har.”
I walk through the snow behind him. The snow plow hasn’t come through yet, so the streets are piled high with fluff. I’m not used to seeing this type of snowfall. In Seattle, the plows are practically on the roads before the meteorologist even says there will be snow. But here, there’s some time for it to settle—for it to really feel like winter.
Rocket runs past, leaping snout-first into a snow pile, sending Brittany into a fit of giggles. His head pops up in an explosion of flakes.
Shelly, this is the best.
“Dinner?” Emily asks impatiently, already halfway down the street, hand
in hand with Josh.
“Coming!” I call.
“Not yet,” Cliff says, murmuring the innuendo under his breath.
I whirl to find one side of his mouth crooked up and his wicked eyebrows raised.
Friendship with Cliff Burke was fun. Friendship with benefits is even
better.
Allen liked the lights off and silence. Cliff likes talking. He likes praising.
He likes roaming his eyes all over me in the dim lamplight, sliding his palms over every inch of my body. He likes flirting.
We trail down the street, parting ways with the girls in Bird & Breakfast’s driveway. Emily, Brittany, and Rocket dart between the bushes to their house as Cliff walks me to the inn’s back door. Once the girls finish knocking snow off their boots and disappear inside, he immediately walks me backward until I’m caged against the inn walls by his palms. He leans down for a slow kiss.
I’m so accustomed to his lips now, to the gentle way they trail over mine, to the way his hand threads through my hair. I thought Cliff liked touch before, but now, it’s like he can’t get enough of me. Like he was a man starved and he can finally feast.
We haven’t told the girls about us yet. We agreed that it would be too difficult to explain, simply because we don’t understand the situation ourselves.
I’m here until after Christmas, and then … well … My natural inclination is to have a plan, but Cliff says we’ll make one when we cross that bridge. Normally, I’d fight him on it, but the alternative is to face the inevitable. The lonely plane ride out of Vermont. So, for now, I enjoy the brush of his winter gloves running over my hips and try to ignore my thoughts.
“Save me some brownies,” I say against his lips. “Or some pie if you have some.”
He hums against me, kissing me again and murmuring, “I’ll bake anything you want.”
I laugh, placing a final kiss and pulling apart. “What happened to the weird baker thing? Watching me while I eat.”
“Oh, I figured that out.”
“Did you? So, you don’t want to watch me eat anymore?”
He chuckles, leaning down to bite my earlobe, pressing a gloved hand against my pelvis. “I’d rather you watch me eat.”
I can’t help but stammer out through bubbling laughter, “Cliff …”
“Is that a yes?”
I lightly push him away, pointing an accusatory finger. “Down, boy. I’ll be over in ten. I wanna finish some paperwork real fast.”
His glove winds up my waist to finally stroke over my cheek.
“All right,” he concedes. “Go do your job before I do unspeakable things to you in the snow.”
My heart zips at the thought, but I force myself to turn and leave. When I do, he grabs the crook of my arm and pulls me back into his chest for another kiss. I sink into it for a moment, then push him back.
“What happened to me doing my job?” I tease.
He shrugs. “You look too good in those jeans. I’m a simple man.”
I shake my head through laughter—laughter that feels so natural now— and finally open the back door. His boots crunch away in the snow, and before the door shuts, I look behind me. He looks over his shoulder at the same time, and my body thrums with excitement.
I bite back a smile and close the back door.
Strolling to the front desk, I sift through recent reservations. We’ve been busy lately. In fact, we have a waitlist for bookings, which, according to Dad, has never happened. He told me over the phone that, while Mom had the hospitality part down, they could never quite figure out advertising. They depended on word of mouth. I changed that for Bird & Breakfast.
Newspaper ads work, sure. And there’s the internet—a new frontier for search advertising I’m steadily grasping as each day passes. But the biggest advantage was my tiny connection at a small northeast travel magazine. We somehow made the December issue. It was a short paragraph about cozy Vermont small towns, but sometimes, the smallest things have the biggest impact. The phone has been ringing steadily since.
It’s a good time for Bird & Breakfast. And I did it.
I expected maybe someone would call from my office to congratulate me.
But they’re out west. I suppose the article wouldn’t have reached them. Or maybe they wouldn’t have called regardless. Weirdly, I find I don’t care.
People sift in and out of the bed-and-breakfast over the next few minutes.
It’s a revolving door of Copper Run residents and inn guests. With the snow outside, people are walking instead of driving. Playing instead of working.
Lisa pops in while passing by, to say hello. I give her a to-go cup of coffee and a newspaper before she goes back out.
Sandra drops off a new bouquet of flowers for the foyer table. She said she noticed them wilting on the way to work. I reach in my pocket to pull out cash for her troubles, but she waves me off.
“On the house, Michelle.”
The guest in the bay window flicks through the local Copper Run
newspaper. Listed on the front page are the winners of the Thanksgiving potluck, an announcement for the Snow and Sips Festival mid-month, and weather reports that read we should expect more snow for the following week —more for this idyllic snow globe.
I sort through the small stack of mail in the corner of the desk, but the addresses bleed together. They’re no longer addressed to Birdie; most are written to me. They’re Christmas cards from guests that I slide in the space beside Mom’s black binder and the reservation log.
I haven’t looked at the binder in weeks. I haven’t had to because this place runs like a well-oiled machine. And there’s one thing in particular I
haven’t looked at.
Dear Sara.
At this point, do I want to know what Mom wrote? Does it matter? This place is alive—thriving—and I’ll politely pass it on to my sister, as planned.
Mom’s wishes will be fulfilled. What else do I need to know from a letter that isn’t addressed to me?
The desk phone blares with a ring, ripping me out of my thoughts. I pick it up.
“Thanks for calling Bird & Breakfast. This is Michelle. How can I help you today?”
There’s a quiet pause, followed by a gasp. “Michelle?”
“Hi. Hello. This is she.”
“Hi.” The voice is breathless. “Wow, this is Cheryl. I’m from Topsy’s Travel Agency.”
My eyes widen, and my heart leaps into my throat. “Oh, hi, Cheryl. It’s so lovely to hear from you.”
Topsy. My best client. The client that—hopefully—Mark hasn’t completely upended. Their paperwork has been scattered over my counters and desk for months, but here they are, calling me.
My stomach drops at the thought.
“Hi,” Cheryl repeats on an almost-exhausted sigh. “Oh gosh, I’m so happy we found this number.”
“How are you?” I ask. “I hope Mark is treating you well.”
“Heh,” she says on an uncomfortable laugh. “Well …”
“That’s not something I love to hear,” I answer with an equally nervous laugh.
“That’s actually why I’m calling,” she says. “We are … not very satisfied
with your company.”
“Oh?” My stomach drops—absolutely plummets to the inn’s carpet.
Shit. Shit. Damn it, Mark.
I knew this would happen. I left my best client to Mr. Thirteen Handicap, and he’s better at driving business into the ground than driving a ball across the course. Now, I’m here to clean up his mess.
I quickly stumble out, “I’m happy to help clarify anything or —”
“Well, we were actually wondering if you’d like to work with us. We’re creating a position for an in-house advertising manager. If you’re interested.”
If my heart wasn’t already on the ground, it’d be burrowing beneath, swallowed up in molten lava. I can’t catch my breath.
They want me?
“Michelle?” she asks on a laugh.
“I’m sorry.” I blink, and a near-giggle bubbles out of me. “But, Cheryl, are you attempting to steal me?”
She lets out the most delightful laugh. I missed her laugh on calls.
“It’s fun when you put it like that,” she says.
“It sure is,” I agree. My fingers fidget with my earring. “I mean, wow.
This is … well, of course I’d love to discuss further. Please send any information you have over. I can give you the inn’s fax number.”
I tap my pen on the blank pad of paper, glancing out at the snow falling in thick, fluffy flakes. A guest walks down the stairs next to his wife. He opens the door for her, and they both wave their mittens in my direction. An easy smile slides onto my face as I wave back.
“That’s fantastic to hear, Michelle. Well, listen, we’ll send over what we have, and if it’s not too last minute, we’d actually like to fly you out right after Christmas for an interview. Formalities, you know.”
My stomach curls in on itself, tightening in a coil, like metal squeaking
over metal.
“Oh.”
“That won’t be a problem, will it?” she asks.
That’s four less days in Copper Run. Four days without Cliff.
But this is my dream.
Isn’t it?
Starting a new advertising department. My own department.
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head to get through the fog. “No. Gosh, no, it’s not a problem at all.”
“Fantastic. Well then, I’ll fax you—wait, what’s the fax number?— anyway, once I have that, I’ll send a packet with some information. Nothing official, some things to look over. There’s a number on there, too, for our internal booking. They’ll get you set up with a plane ticket.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Mmhmm. And, hey, welcome aboard. Hopefully?”
We share laughs, but the moment I put down the phone, I’m
overwhelmed.
This is unreal.
But something—something, something—shimmers down my spine in a sudden pool of unease.
This is perfect. So … why doesn’t it feel as good as it should?
I hold my hand to my uneasy stomach.
This is good. This is fantastic. This is … I tuck the rest of my paperwork into the desk, grab my mom’s purse from the hook, and head back out and over to Cliff’s. The chill outside bites, and the wind hissing over my cheeks is too loud, but I push through the back door of Cliff’s house in a run.
Boots and jackets are piled near the kitchen table on soaked towels. The air is warm from the oven. The kitchen is coated in smells of melted butter and jam. On the stovetop, some type of berry compote bubbles. The girls laugh in the living room. The Rugrats theme plays from the TV. Rocket taps into the kitchen with a wagging tail, his tongue lolling out from the corner of his teeth.
Cliff comes around the corner behind Rocket, laughing that beautiful laugh of his as he straddles over Rocket to pass by. He’s already changed from the swishing windbreaker coat to his white corded sweater. But the
moment he sees me, his brow furrows.
“Everything okay?”
I don’t know how to answer. There’s no easy way to.
“Yeah,” I say breathlessly. “I … I got a call from the travel agency. That top client, you know?”
“Oh,” he says. And then, as if it dawns on him, he echoes, “Oh.”
“They … they want me. They offered me a job. There. Building their
advertising from scratch.”
“Oh!”
His eyebrows rise up to his hairline, and he grins ear to ear. He strides
forward, pulling me into his chest, stroking a palm through my hair. He kisses my forehead, and I close my eyes as it lingers before he pulls back,
ducking to look into my eyes.
“That’s great. Congratulations.”
He’s so supportive. So overjoyed for me.
I swallow, leaning forward to bury my nose in his neck. He holds me tighter.
“It’s great,” he says. “You deserve every bit of success you get.”
I let Cliff be optimistic. I let him be happy—feeling emotions for the both of us … because I’m not sure how to feel at all.
