If It Makes You Happy(127)

“But you’re in love!” Her hands flail in the air before slapping down on her thighs. “Isn’t that good enough, Shelly? You’re in love with this town. This place. And Cliff. You are so stupidly in love with Cliff, and it’s so frustrating, watching you throw all this away. Him and the inn. And for what? To live in the same stupid town house you had with Allen?”

I clench my jaw. “It’s more than that, and you know it. I can’t pick up my life and move here. I have a dream offer. An offer I’ve worked so, so hard for, Sara. You don’t even understand. You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed to make this career. I’ve done so much. My own damn marriage couldn’t stand up to it. So why shouldn’t I get what I’ve worked for? This is what I have. What I deserve. This career. I have nothing but this, and I love it. I can’t leave it.” The words leave so wildly that they surprise even me.

Sara stares at me for too long, then shakes her head stiffly. She huffs out a sardonic laugh, slams the binder closed, and walks toward the kitchen. She stops short of the doorway.

“You ever stop to think that maybe you deserve more?”

I open my mouth and close it, running my tongue over my teeth and sighing.

Sara shakes her head. “Just a thought. See you tomorrow.”

I mumble a small, “See you tomorrow,” but I don’t think she hears me.



That night, I don’t sleep in my own bed. I sneak between the rosebushes and push into the Burke house with a quiet creak of the back door. A gurgling coffeepot brews in the corner, and Cliff sits with a book at the kitchen table.

His lips pull at the corner, the crease beside his mouth deepening so beautifully, and I hope I can remember it exactly as it is when I’m across the country.

I walk to him and lower into his lap. He turns the book spine up on the table and wraps his arms around my waist.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Do I know you?”

I smile. “No, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Michelle.”

I hold out my hand. He gently slides his palm into mine—large and rough compared to my smooth fingers.

“Cliff. And might I say, you are an absolutely stunning woman.”

Shake.

“Someone told me that once.”

He laughs through a bitten lip. “Well, you should be told every minute of your life.”

Shake.

“You’re funny,” I say.

“Not a single person has told me that.”

Shake.

“You should be told that every minute of your life,” I whisper back.

He stops shaking my hand and leans his head into the crook of my neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hi.”

“Figured you’d be here eventually,” he says. “Made you some coffee.” He nods toward the coffeepot. He aimlessly runs his palm up my spine. Touching me. Always touching me. “And … I have your Christmas gift.”

I straighten up. “Oh, really?”

“Really.”

He pats my butt so that I rise off his lap, then walks to the counter. He swivels around with a small white box.

“I’ve missed your weird baker thing,” I say with a sigh.

“I think I’ve mastered the baker thing this time.” Cliff sets the box on the table. “Try it.”

I look at him, then back to the box, sliding open the lid and looking inside.

I’ve never seen a pastry like this before. It’s not a muffin, but it’s not a sweet roll either. The dough has that croissant texture, but it’s also compact. Small. Round. And it smells exactly like burnt sugar.

I pick it up, take a bite, and … melt.

It’s buttery. Flaky. There’s a soft crunch with a bit of the sugar flaking off onto my lips. It’s messy, but every crumb is a delicate balance of flavors.

It’s so unique, so wonderful, that I take a second bite, trailing my tongue over my lips after.

“What is this?” I ask.

I glance over at Cliff. He sinks into an exhale, and the little line beside his mouth deepens.

“It’s kouign-amann.”

I laugh. “Kwe what?”

He leans from one hip to the other, sauntering over to my side and placing a palm around my lower back.

“It’s a French pastry. A pastry that is”—he leans in on an exhausted exhale—“incredibly difficult to make. With many layers. A lot like you.”

“I’m difficult to make?”

“You’re difficult. In the best of ways.”

I smile. “Well, it’s my favorite,” I announce, dropping the last bite into my mouth.

His eyes pinch closed as he grins. “God, that’s so hot. Say it again.”

I lean closer. “It’s my favorite, Cliff.”

Peering down at me through hooded eyes, he grabs my hand and tugs me down the hall.

The moment his bedroom door shuts, we’re reaching for each other. Cliff cups my head and kisses me. It’s wild. Eager.

He lifts my shirt over my head as I grip his jaw. I bite his lip as he pushes the hem of my tight skirt up around my waist. Together, we fall backward on the mattress.

Cliff kisses over my chest with low, barely there hums, like he’s singing a hymn in his church and I’m the icon he’s praying to. He gingerly tugs down my bra cup, kissing the peak of my breast and then the other. Licking. Biting. His tongue traces a line down the middle of my chest, between my ribs, and over my stomach. He places kiss after kiss between my thighs and over my underwear before hooking his thumbs in the fabric and pulling them down.