If It Makes You Happy(20)

George’s head jerks back.

And then I hear Allen’s words cycling through my head once more. “You deserve to be alone.”

Outside, there’s a high-pitched wail. I look to the window. Brittany is sprawled on the ground between two pumpkins. And that same boy stands over her.

Maybe I do deserve to be alone. I could spend the next few months running the inn by myself and do fine. Apparently, alone is my specialty. But my blood boils at the sight of a little girl getting knocked down. She doesn’t deserve that.

I push through the corner market’s door with my basket discarded and without a single goodbye on my lips, untying Rocket’s leash and running toward the park with him by my side.





CHAPTER 5





Cliff




I don’t have eyes on Brittany, but I’d recognize my daughter’s cries anywhere.

“You forgot your change, Cliff!” Betty calls as both I and my buddy Lars bolt from her stand, empty-handed, apple cider abandoned.

I don’t turn around. I’m already hopping over the fence toward the pumpkin patch, where I left Brittany with Emily.

I dart around the low wire fence housing the fishing booth, sidestep the pony for children’s horseback rides, and pivot through a crowd, where Winston chortles from his face-painting booth, “Whoa, Cliff!” and, “Got somewhere to be?”

Skidding around the corner of the haystacks, Lars points. “Cliff, there.”

I finally spot Brittany.

On the ground.

Crying.

I rush over, crouch down, and inspect her from head to toe for injuries. I swipe a thumb across her cheek, wiping away a single tear. My heart aches. Something about when kids cry a single tear makes it infinitely sadder. And it’s worse when it’s my daughter.

“Britt, hey, look at me.”

Another tear falls.

“Britt Britt. Hey.”

I continue checking over her arms and knees for bruises, and once I realize she’s fine, the ridiculousness of this scene finally washes over me. Brittany is plopped on the ground beside a pumpkin—like she’s a Cabbage Patch Kid emerging from the vegetable birth canal.

I chuckle. “You all right?”

Brittany tries to smile through her choked tears.

That’s the secret thing about raising a kid—if it doesn’t look like a big deal to you, it’s not a big deal to them.

Lars chuckles beside me. He’s standing, hands tucked into his pockets and shaking his head. “You gave this guy a fright, little lady.”

Lars has been my best friend since high school. He’s had a mustache since the eighties, when he adored Magnum, P.I., and his pizzeria is so good that his belt notches have steadily risen since then as well.

From behind me, I hear a nasally “She pushed me first!”

Lars and I turn our heads and find some kid standing a few feet away, pointing his finger accusingly at my little girl.

I close my eyes and sigh, barely managing a “Where are your parents?”

At the same moment I ask, there’s a bark across the street. A flash of black-and-white fur zooms under the park’s iron archway. As of a week ago, there’s only one border collie in our town, which means a stern woman is close behind.

And there she is.

Michelle crosses the street in a half jog. She looks intense. Her brown hair is a teased mess, and that maroon lipstick of hers could kill a man. Or a child, in this case.

The kid freezes on the spot as Rocket leaps over the pumpkin patch fence and beelines to Brittany.

“Hey, hey, hey.” I leap to grab his collar, but Brittany scoots closer and wraps her arms around his neck, burying her cheek in his fur. My anxiety skips to my throat. “Britt, let’s back up. We still don’t know this dog that well, all right?”

Rocket’s head jerks toward the boy, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say his eyes narrow.

“Hey,” Michelle says through heavy breaths, her slender hand splayed over her ribs. “How’s everything going over here?” It’s not a question though.

My lips tip up at her authoritative tone. The kind that says, I know everything is not okay, but I’m asking to be polite.

“Mostly all right,” I answer, watching as her eyes dart between Brittany and her dog.

Lars’s eyebrows rise as he gives her a sly grin. “Don’t think we’ve met.” He reaches out to shake her hand. “I’m Lars.”

“Michelle,” she answers, now focused on the boy and missing my buddy’s extended hand.

Lars tongues his cheek with a grin, running his eyes up and down her figure. He likes out-of-towners, and they like the mysterious local reminiscence of Tom Selleck. The moment he finds out she’s living here, his interest will flitter away.

I jerk my chin at the boy. “Hey, kid. Parents? Are they here?”

Brittany rubs the back of her fingers across her snotty nose. “He’s grounded.”

“I am not,” he retorts, taking a step closer.

“Watch it,” I warn at the same time Michelle takes a tentative step forward. My eyes roam over her. I can’t help but grin at her bulldog nature, which is, surprisingly, not the actual dog in this situation.

“Are you grounded?” I ask the boy.