If It Makes You Happy(12)

“You hate dogs,” the teenager says.

He scoffs. “I don’t hate dogs.”

She stares at me. “Who’s this?”

“Figuring that out. Will you take Britt inside?”

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

He smiles. His expressions are so gentle toward these girls. “Yes. Go back inside for a second.”

“But I just got out here.”

“And you’ll have just as much fun taking the walk back inside,” he says, shaking the lunch box by its handle. “Enjoy the crunching leaves. The breath of fresh air.”

The teenager rolls her eyes so far back that I can see the whites of them, but it’s accompanied by a smile.

She holds out her palm. “C’mon, Britt Britt.”

The little girl scrambles to her feet, giving a wave to Rocket. “Bye, doggy!”

Rocket resists me, as if to follow them, but I continue gripping his collar.

Linking hands, the girl and the teenager walk to their back door, but not without a few extra glances back at us before disappearing through the snapping screen door.

“Teens,” the man mutters with that crooked smile.

He stares back at me. I didn’t realize he’d stepped closer. He leans forward to rest his forearm on the fence. It’s so close to my shoulder that I can feel the warmth of his palm. This man has zero concept of personal space, but I’ll be damned if I move away first.

“I didn’t get your name,” he observes.

“Michelle,” I answer.

“Cliff,” he responds, extending his hand. “Cliff Burke.”

I take it. His hand is bigger than mine. A faded pink burn embellishes the back. His shake is firm but somehow gentle, yet not soft enough to be insulting. He doesn’t shake my hand with half his palm like I’m frail, but instead like I’m an equal—something most men at my company struggle to balance.

“So, why isn’t Sara here?” he asks, continuing to shake my hand.

“What?”

“You’re right. Too personal a question.”

Shake.

“Why isn’t my sister taking over, you mean?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Shake.

“She’s busy,” I answer.

“And you aren’t?”

“Not now.”

Cliff’s teasing smile rises once more. “What does that mean?”

“I wanted the job,” I lie.

He snorts. “No, you didn’t. So why take it?”

He’s too perceptive, which has my nerves spitting fire as I blurt out, “Because my mom clearly can’t do it anymore.”

It isn’t until he stops moving that I realize we were still shaking hands. His eyebrows tilt in, and embarrassment sluices down my spine.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

I pinch my eyes closed and sigh. “No, I’m sorry,” I echo. “It’s been a long day.”

I open my eyes again to peer at him and find his boyish, lopsided smile grinning back. My chest tightens.

“I can only imagine.” He glances down at our hands linked together. “So, are you going to let go first or me?”

I quickly slip my hand from his. He watches the motion, that nettlesome grin plastered on his face.

“It was very nice to meet you, Cliff.”

I walk backward. Rocket is on my left, and I swear he’s giving Cliff the side-eye. I feel myself doing the same.

“You too, Michelle.” But when I turn to leave, he calls, “How about you come over for dinner?”

I halt in place, whirling back around. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says. “A big neighborly welcome. We tend to do that here.”

“That’s—”

“Trust me, it’ll be fun. And”—he blows out a breath with a smile—“I’m sure you’ll get to know us eventually if Britt has anything to say about it. She makes friends quick.” Before I can refuse the offer, he twists at the waist and yells toward their screened back door, “Emily! Set the table for one more!”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble. You don’t have groceries yet anyway. Right?”

I look down at Rocket at the same time he peers up at me. Shelly, what the hell?

As if on cue, my stomach growls. Cliff flicks his eyes down, then back up. A cocky smile is paired with raised eyebrows.

I don’t see any other option, so I say, “Sure.”





CHAPTER 3





Cliff




Michelle enters my kitchen cautiously, like she’s been invited to dinner with Satan in Hell. And I swear that border collie following her is ready to steal my pitchfork.

“The dog!” Brittany runs past me.

I whip my hand out, but she slides slightly out of range, so I can’t grab the straps of her overalls in time. When my daughter skids to a halt in front of that border collie, he lowers onto his haunches on the tiled floor.

“Rocket, be nice,” Michelle commands.

The dog’s ear twitches, but he doesn’t deign to turn his head.

Michelle remains stationed by the door, back straight, arms crossed. Crimson lipstick matches her equally crimson nails, anxiously tapping the crook of her arm.