If It Makes You Happy(25)

Her hand rests over her heart. “So sweet.”

George lifts an eyebrow, circling back to “Things are going well?”

“It’s been good,” I answer, eyeing the guest book and tucking it aside. “Running like a dream.”

Lisa sniffs the air. “Have you been making some of Birdie’s biscuits?”

“Yes. They’re in the—” My sentence is barely out before Lisa shuffles past me, down the hall, and into the kitchen, past the STAFF ONLY plaque.

George clears his throat, giving me a pointed look. I’m not sure what look, but it’s enough to make me leave to follow Lisa. The creaking floorboards indicate he’s close behind.

I swing open the kitchen door, and Lisa already has a biscuit to her mouth.

“I used to love these.”

But when she crunches down, her face twists. Bugged-out eyes, scrunched nose, and pursed lips. Her mmm is so forced it’s embarrassing.

My heart sinks. “What is it?” I ask. “Are they not good?”

She grabs a napkin and spits it out.

Oh no.

“Dear,” she says, pushing up her glasses, “they’re terrible. Is this what you’re feeding guests?”

She says it so loud that I walk to the kitchen door connected to the dining room and ensure nobody is out there. But a family is at breakfast. And their biscuits are untouched. With a grimace, I shut the door.

“But nobody’s complained so far,” I whisper to Lisa.

“Are there guests in there right now?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer more quietly.

Lisa peers over my shoulder at the dining room door. “And you’re not eating breakfast with them?”

“Am I supposed to?” I thought they didn’t want that. What am I missing?

“Oh dear …”

The phone on the kitchen counter rings, and I instantly grab it. Anything to get away from this conversation.

“Bird & Breakfast. How can I help you?”

Lisa hands the biscuit to George, who shakes his head in refusal.

Oh, come on. They can’t be that bad.

“Shellfish!” My sister’s peppy voice rings through the phone.

“Hi,” I exhale.

The tension in my chest releases. I didn’t realize my shoulders were hiked so high up.

“I thought you’d call!”

I smile grimly. “You didn’t give me your new number.”

“Oh. Right.” She laughs. “How are things?”

“Good. How’s Dad?” I realize I’m changing the subject, but the last thing I want to discuss is how terribly I’m running this place.

“Dad’s moved on to reruns of Cheers,” Sara answers.

“Improvement from M*A*S*H, I guess.”

“For me at least.”

I catch eyes with Lisa and point to the phone. Sorry, I mouth.

She waves me on, as if to say, Take it.

The front door creaks open down the hall.

Lisa gives me a thumbs-up. “I’ll handle it,” she says.

“Wait—”

But she’s already shuffling out of the kitchen, leaving the door propped open behind her. I groan. I miss when people actually listened to me.

George follows his wife, giving a final look at that crusty biscuit as if it committed a war crime.

Seriously?

“Shells?”

“Yeah, still here,” I answer Sara, squatting down to sit on a small step stool.

“How are you?” she asks.

“I’m doing fine. The guests are nice. The place is immaculate. Mom left it in great condition.”

“Good! Ooh, have you met Lisa and George yet?”

“Yeah.” I snort. “I can’t get rid of them actually.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to. They helped Mom all the time. They know that place inside and out. Also, how’s the hot neighbor?”

My stomach drops. Oh, you mean the neighbor whose pocket I was digging through? The neighbor with toned thighs?

I pick up the pen on the kitchen counter and start to doodle on the blank paper meant for messages. “He’s—”

“Lisa!” a friendly voice booms from the foyer. I know that low tone.

I lean to the side on my stool, trying to peer out into the hall, but I can’t get a good line of sight past the coat rack filled with jackets.

“Oh, Cliff!” Lisa coos. “What are you doing here?”

I swallow.

Knew it.

“Shelly, stop zoning out!” Sara whines.

“Sorry. I missed what you said.”

“Hot neighbor?”

I swallow. “I can’t get rid of him either actually.”

Sara laughs. “I love that town. They’re all so friendly.”

Too friendly, is what I want to say.

Seattle was somehow both loud and quiet; people were all around, sure, yet nobody was dropping by your house unannounced. I miss it.

Instead, I mumble, “He and I really don’t talk that much.”

I lean back on my stool again and finally catch a glimpse of Cliff. He’s resting forward on the front desk, running a hand through his hair even though it instantly flops back down. His wrists are so … defined. His leather watch band, buckled around one wrist, slides up and down his arm with each movement, and I can’t understand why that adds to his appeal.