If It Makes You Happy(28)

I’m bad at useless conversation, but I know one person who isn’t. And that neighbor is who I’m going to convince to be my friend.

God help me.

I walk across my driveway, cross on crunching fallen leaves, and stop short of Cliff Burke’s fence.

I can do this. I can make nice with the snarky man next door.

I take a deep breath, eyeing his open window. Plates clatter together as the sound of running water flows from the kitchen.

They’re busy. They probably had dinner. It’s a bad time.

I turn, but Rocket’s tail whacks my calf.

Shelly, don’t be scared.

“I’m not scared,” I whisper back.

You’re being a scaredy-cat.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

I unhook the white fence to his property. Rocket walks through the open gate with me, nipping at my heels, as if herding me through.

There’s commotion from their house before I even step onto the porch. Someone inside barrels upstairs. A muffled television plays the local news.

I raise my fist and clang their door knocker twice. The sound reminds me of hammered nails in a coffin. My own coffin. I stand on the porch awkwardly for either one second or one minute—I don’t know; I’m agonizingly stuck in time—until the door finally whips open.

When Cliff sees me, his eyebrows rise. He holds a book in one hand while his eyes roam from my lips down to my tucked-in white shirt, black leather belt, jeans, and white sneakers, then back up. A crooked smile slowly slides up the corner of his mouth. It sends a zip of anxiety through me. He never fails to make me feel exposed.

“Michelle. This is a surprise.”

He places the book on an entryway table, then leans an arm and his hip against the doorjamb. His loose cable-knit sweater is rolled up his forearms. He looks so casual. Effortless. Confident.

I clear my throat and gesture by my side.

“Rocket wanted to see Brittany,” I explain.

Cliff blinks down at Rocket. His tail beats ferociously on the porch. I haven’t seen Rocket this excited since we moved. Either he genuinely likes Brittany or he’s a master manipulator, working for my side. It’s likely the former. He’s never been on my team.

Cliff chuckles. “You’re here because your dog asked for a playdate?”

“Yes.”

With another quick assessment of the two of us, Cliff finally turns at the waist and calls through the house, “Britt! Rocket’s here for you!”

Footsteps pound down the stairs. I wish I could bottle the expression on Brittany’s face the moment she sees us. Her grin couldn’t be any wider. She bounces on her toes, practically thrumming with excitement in her black-and-white-spotted nightgown.

“You’ve got ten minutes because we’re already past your bedtime,” Cliff says.

“Really, Daddy?”

“Really, really. Be very careful. Don’t hug him. Don’t spook him. Just … throw sticks or something. Okay?”

Brittany zooms into the yard so fast that she practically falls down the porch stairs. The moment she passes Rocket, he’s right behind her, chasing her through the grass.

Cliff tucks his hands into his pockets, watching in silence.

I squeeze an outside fold in my jeans and release, finally saying into the quiet, “Mind if I talk to you, Cliff?”

His eyebrows rise once more in surprise. I must be throwing him too many curveballs. I don’t blame him; I can barely keep up with them myself.

“Sure, Michelle,” he says, laughing through my name, mimicking my formality.

He takes a seat on the top porch stair, and I squat down to join him.

I draw in a big breath. He grins in anticipation.

“Yes?” he coaxes.

“I need help,” I blurt out.

“You … need help,” he clarifies slowly.

“Yes. I mean, I’m good at running the inn. I’m great at advertising—a professional actually—and the finances are no problem. I have excellent instructions for the day-to-day and—”

“So, why do you need help?”

I grip my hands together. “My bedside manner is apparently … not pleasant.”

Cliff barks out a laugh. I jump, and the heat in my cheeks is from either embarrassment or anger. Or both.

“Well, it’s not that funny,” I say with a sneer.

“No, no. Sorry, sorry.” He waves his hands and tries to stifle his chuckle by biting his bottom lip. “I … well …”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“The fact that you question it at all is almost charming.”

“I know my strengths. I’m willing to accept when I’m wrong.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t believe me. “So, you’re asking for my help? To … what? Make you more hospitable?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“All right … uh … well, I’m not sure how to—”

I close my eyes tight and let out a strained “Please.”

“What was that?”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“God, asking for help hurts so bad for you, doesn’t it?” he teases. “All right. So, how can I help this … problem of yours?”