If It Makes You Happy(38)

I snort. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Or endearing.”

“I’m not endearing.”

“I’m endeared by you.”

“Ha ha.” I fake laugh, moving my attention back to the couple and not letting the compliment linger between us more than it already is. They’re tapping an area on the map now. “See? They don’t need help.”

“Yes, they do,” Cliff says through a barely stifled laugh. “You gotta go down there, enough to be present, but not enough to be overwhelming.”

“Then you help.”

“You.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Cliff mocks back.

The two guests whip their heads to the stairwell, and Cliff and I quickly stumble back, my shoes fumbling into his legs and his palm landing on my back to steady me as we scramble up the stairs.

We reach the second-floor landing, and my face is hot.

“That was embarrassing.” My hands shake, and I stretch them out.

Cliff stares at my fidgeting hands. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

I give a pointed look.

“I don’t like being bad at things,” I explain. “I don’t know the last time I was bad at anything.”

He chuckles, threading a hand through his floppy hair, which somehow never seems to land in a place he’s comfortable with. “Michelle, if you want my help, you’ve got to listen to me once in a while.”

“I like things a certain way.”

The line near his mouth stretches and deepens as he lifts his lips to one side. It’s the cocky smile I’ve gotten accustomed to throughout the afternoon.

“You asked me to be here,” he reminds me.

“I know; I know.”

He takes a step forward, placing large, heavy palms on my shoulders. I hiss in a breath. That’s the thing about Cliff—he touches everyone, and it’s always warm.

“Why do you think I own a bakery?” he asks.

I tilt my head to the side. “Because no company would put up with you.”

He grins. “Because I like being my own boss. But sometimes, even I need help, which is why I hired Carol. And”—he squeezes my shoulders once before letting go—“yes, being an employee somewhere sounds like torture.”

“Did you ever work a job?” I ask curiously.

He scratches behind his head. “In another life. Before the bakery.”

“Why’d you quit?”

He shrugs and simply says, “Freedom.”

I twist my lips to the side, and he laughs.

“Also, I’m damn good at baking. So, let’s move on to that next. Maybe we’ll have more luck there.”

I groan.

“God, you’re worse than Emily sometimes—you know that?”

“Are you calling me a teenager?” I ask.

He lowers his gaze down to my black clogs and back up. “If the shoe fits.”

I grimace. “Funny.”

We walk down the stairwell. I exhale a breath upon seeing the map couple gone. With them and the other guest out sightseeing, the house is empty for the first time all morning.

We enter the kitchen. The strong scent of cinnamon filters from the oven.

“Mmm.” Cliff rubs his palms together. “Smells promising.”

Good.

I expected Cliff to be irritated that I’d started without him, but instead, he laughs at my proactiveness. I’m quickly realizing that not much bothers Cliff Burke. It’s such a contrast to Allen, who would have given up teaching me altogether had I pulled a stunt like that. Part of me wonders if that’s what I wanted to happen.

These are my cinnamon rolls. I started baking last night and have made three terrible batches since then. I wanted to prove I can do whatever he can. Maybe I’m not good with people, but I don’t need baking lessons on top of it. And I can feel it—this is the batch that will prove it.

Cliff squeaks open the oven. I stand on my toes to look over his shoulder, and my face falls. The rolls are a dark brown, and even I can see that’s probably too brown.

Cliff’s eyes widen before swiveling over to me. “How long have these been in here?”

“My mom’s recipe said thirty-five minutes.”

He snorts. “No, it didn’t.”

“I think I know what it said. I read it this morning.”

“Not closely enough,” he says, crossing the kitchen to a drawer.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Oh, really? And how do you know?”

He grins. “Because I wrote it for her.”

Of course he gave my mom this recipe.

I curl my lips in to silence myself as embarrassment slides down my spine like a freezing ice cube.

Cliff snatches mittens from the first drawer he finds. He seems to know where everything is in this kitchen.

When Cliff’s back is facing me, I slip my finger into the bookmarked section of Mom’s black binder and reread her cinnamon roll recipe. I grumble. Cliff was right. They were only supposed to be in there for twenty-five minutes. Tonguing my cheek, I look back, and Cliff is already smiling.

“Was I right?” he asks.

“You were right.”