If It Makes You Happy(17)

It’s the brother—Cliff Burke—who keeps drifting through my mind.

Cliff Burke, with his veined hands raking through loose brown hair. Cliff Burke, with his crooked smile and deep laugh. Cliff Burke, who doesn’t understand personal space.

I shake out the irritated feeling in my hands, the remnants of warm sparks that skittered over my skin when he touched me once, twice, who knows how many times yesterday. The palm curled around my waist. The breath in my ear when he steadied the uneasy plates in my hand. The solid body behind me when I fell into him.

The bedside phone rings, and I jump before grabbing it off the base.

“Bird & Breakfast. This is—”

“Shellfish!” my sister’s voice squeals through the phone. “You’re actually there!”

I laugh. “Hi, Sara.”

“Ugh, it’s so weird, not hearing your voice every day.”

“I’ve only been here a day.”

“That’s twenty-four hours too long.”

It’s been a bit longer, but I don’t correct her. Between my drive and her commute back to college in California, it’s been closer to two days.

“Wait, what are you doing up so early?” I ask. “It must be …” I check my watch again. “Nine in the morning.”

“Don’t go all big sister on me. I’m fine. I’ve been painting all night. God, I don’t want to graduate,” she says on a laughing whine.

“Haven’t you put off graduating enough already?”

“Yeah, but I could live in school forever.”

I grin to myself. I adore my sister’s love for the arts. It’s so different from how I think, and I wish I could bottle that fascination for myself.

“Get your degree already,” I tease.

“I should have called earlier.”

“This was perfect timing.”

“Yeah, but another day, and you’d have totally forgotten about your little sister, and that’s not acceptable.”

I huff out a laugh. “I’m always thinking of you. How’s Dad?”

“He’s … fine.” Sara’s voice lowers to a murmur. “Still watching a lot of M*A*S*H.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” There’s a moment of silence before she asks, “How are you, Shelly?”

“Good. Yeah, it’s fine over here.”

“Wow. Convincing,” Sara says with a laugh. “Met anyone?”

I swallow. “Mm-hmm.” Sara will only ask more questions, so I add, “My neighbor invited me to dinner last night.”

She gasps. “You went to dinner? With the hot neighbor?”

My face heats. “I didn’t say he was hot.”

“Yeah, but Mom always said he was. The guy with daughters, right?”

I look over at the open kitchen window. I almost choke on air as Cliff passes by again.

He looks so … casual. He’s not like the men I’m accustomed to, with blazers and snug ties. Cliff’s wearing a white tee layered under an unbuttoned long-sleeved corduroy shirt. The sleeves are rolled up his forearms. The little line beside his mouth is creased.

I feel ridiculous, holding my breath as I watch him, phone pressed to his ear like mine is, flipping a pen through his long fingers. After a moment, he tucks the pen behind his ear and pushes the free hand through his hair. He mouths words I can’t hear, then walks out of view.

“Shells?”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s … a little weird, being here.”

“Oh …”

That sticks in my chest more than it should.

Dear Sara.

“I should go,” I say. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Hey,” Sara says, suddenly quiet. “Do you wanna talk about it or something? The inn? Mom? … Or Allen?”

I shake my head, then realize she can’t see me. “I really should go, Sara.”

“Mm-kay,” she says, then softly adds, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I place the phone back on its base, reaching up to trace Mom’s pendant over the thin chain. Rocket stands in the doorway again, staring at me.

“I don’t need your judgment right now,” I murmur.

Rocket huffs and walks down the hall.

Across the yard, Cliff paces in front of the window again. I pull the lace curtains closed.



“Drive safe,” I say.

I receive a mumbled “Thanks” in response.

This is only my second set of guests, but they left the same way the first group had—with a cold shoulder and grumbling under their breath. To add insult to injury, the guest book is, once again, unsigned.

My parents never told me their guests were rude, but after four days of hosting two reservations under my roof, I’m convinced the busy season brings the worst kind of tourists.

The week started out fine. The first man arrived with a suitcase in tow and a beaming smile. He said he traveled here often, which was obvious by how casually he leaned on the desk with his elbow, almost nudging the call bell. I nodded politely but didn’t ask where he was from because, well, he looked like another city native, like myself. I jotted down his card information and saw the note in my mom’s loopy scrawl, indicating he’d reserved his usual room—the master suite upstairs. I handed him the keys with a smile and wished him a happy stay.