If It Makes You Happy(36)

“Brought you something,” I say, tipping open the box to reveal a row of cinnamon rolls, the icing I drizzled over them seconds before leaving the bakery still dripping.

“Are these leftovers from today?” she asks.

“Try one.”

She narrows her eyes, and I laugh.

“Come on. Try it.”

She takes a cinnamon roll from the box, slowly raises it to her full lips, and bites down. Maybe it’s a baker thing, but I love watching people eat pastries. More specifically, I like how Michelle looks when she eats one of mine. Her eyes flutter closed. The corner of her lips quirks into a smile. And her thin eyebrows cinch together in the middle.

“These are amazing,” she moans.

Christ. My heart is pounding.

“That’s a noise I like to hear,” I say.

Her eyes snap open. I chuckle.

“I’m a baker. We live for others’ enjoyment.”

Except, immediately after, she puts the roll back in the box.

Huh.

I know when a treat belongs to someone—when it captures them so well that they can’t put it down. Cinnamon rolls are not her favorite. Noted.

She assesses me for a moment before asking, “So, why did you want to show me these?”

“Because they’re good.”

“Very cocky.”

“And,” I say, leaning in, “because they’re easy to make. You’re gonna start baking these instead of biscuits.”

She huffs out a laugh through her nose. “I can’t make cinnamon rolls.”

“Sure you can. Because I’ll teach you.”

She shakes her head. “We haven’t even started the People Lessons we agreed to.”

“People Lessons,” I muse. “Love that.”

“Baking lessons too?” she continues without acknowledging my side comment. “It’s too much, Cliff.”

“Being able to bake a decent breakfast for your guests goes hand in hand with People Lessons. Trust me. Also, I can decide what’s too much, all right?” Before she can protest again, I nod my chin to Brittany. “How’d this work out today?”

“Good. She’s a good kid.”

“Good.”

“She likes Rocket a lot.”

I nod. “I can see that.”

“I’m surprised you’re not more nervous,” Michelle observes. “Given the scar and bite. All the trauma you carry,” she finishes with a sly grin.

“Just because I had a bad moment with a dog doesn’t mean Brittany needs to. I always want better things for her and Emily. Thankfully, Brittany is already far braver than I was at her age.”

“She tried sliding down the banister earlier,” Michelle says. “And she carried on a whole conversation with some woman who probably wanted to read the paper in peace.”

I bark out a laugh. “She wasn’t too much work today, was she?”

“No, the woman adored her by the end of it,” she says before adding, “And I’ll decide what’s too much.”

I smile as she lifts a teasing eyebrow.

“Funny.” I think Michelle’s subtlety in her humor is what I like best.

She reaches up to twirl her earring between her fingers. I wonder if it’s a nervous thing. But below her nail polish, I spot a small Band-Aid wrapped around her finger.

“Whoa, what’s this?” I reach out and trace my finger along hers.

She draws in a breath. “I cut myself slicing an apple.”

“Christ, you’re gonna accidentally kill yourself in that kitchen.”

“I’m not entirely helpless.”

I grin. “This”—I touch her Band-Aid—“and this”—I brush my thumb over the pink burn on her inner arm—“are not helping your case.”

Michelle blinks at my fingers tracing over her arm. Her spine is as stiff as a board. Her eyes meet mine, and I feel my brow furrow.

I chuckle. “Everything all right?”

But then I realize I’m touching her.

Shoelaces snapping on concrete interrupt us, drawing my attention over to my house as I jerk my hand away. Emily marches up the driveway. Her headphones rest over her ears, and the Discman is held in a fist by her side.

“Em!” I yell. She doesn’t look up at first, so I cup my palms over my mouth. “Emily!”

She jerks her head up and slides down the headphones.

“How was school, kiddo?”

“Good,” she says, tucking her CD player and her palms into her jean jacket pockets.

I narrow my eyes at the short answer because it’s all too familiar. “Seeing Josh at the video store again?”

“No,” she says defensively. “I worked. After school. I went straight there.”

“That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”

“I worked,” she repeats, but she’s notably kicking a curled-up leaf on the ground. Her eyes dart to Michelle’s, then back to me.

“So, if I checked your bag, you wouldn’t have a movie in there?”

“Yeah, but it’s from, like, two days ago.”

“What movie?” Michelle calls over.

Emily plays with a loose string on her jacket. “Nightmare on Elm Street.”