If It Makes You Happy(39)

The familiar cocky smile spreads across his face, and he looks at the ceiling, as if praying to heaven. “I love it when that happens.”

He slides on the mittens, opens the oven, and takes out the deep dish of rolls, placing the pan on the spare towel on the counter. He drops the gloves and pulls out a fork from yet another drawer he instinctively knows will contain flatware and unceremoniously cuts into a roll, spearing it at the end of the tongs.

Cliff blows on it first, then slowly takes a bite. I watch the metal tips disappear between his lips and stare as the fork steadily slides back out, tugging part of his bottom lip with it. His tongue flicks to the corner of his mouth, licking a smidgen of leftover cinnamon. Why does it feel like slow motion?

“That’s terrible.”

I blink back to the present and shake my head. “Terrible?”

“Terrible,” he repeats. “The worst roll I’ve ever tasted. Toss it out.”

I open and close my mouth, trying to find words, until I see a sly, lopsided smile. My lips straighten into a line. “You’re messing with me.”

He chuckles. “It was in there too long, so it’s a little stiff. It’s not bad though.” He raises his eyebrows and lowers them. “But you can do better.”

Cliff digs in a brown grocery bag set on the floor and pulls out flour. Rocket’s head lifts from the rug as he sniffs the air.

“You brought more ingredients?” I ask as he removes sugar next. I sigh. “You knew we’d have to remake it.”

“Thought I’d let you try first,” he says with a little wink. A wink so casual that my heart stutters.

I don’t know the last time anyone winked at me.

“And, yes,” Cliff says, leaning in closer like we’re sharing a secret, “I had a feeling you’d try before I got here, so I brought extra.”

I drop my shoulders and roll my head back. His low laugh rumbles in his throat as he dips both arms into the bag again. He emerges with two sandwiches in clear zipped bags, presenting them to me in his palms.

“Ham or turkey?”

“You made lunch for me too?” I ask, almost whining. “Cliff, please …”

“I’m not gonna invite myself over, then ask you to make me a sandwich. I got them from Betty’s sandwich shop. Ham or turkey?”

“Cliff, you’re already helping me—”

“Ham or turkey, Michelle.”

I hold out my palm and sigh. “Turkey, then.”

“Good. Ham is my favorite.” Even though Cliff smiles when he says it, it doesn’t reach his eyes. That crease beside his lips isn’t as deep as it could go.

He sets his sandwich aside. I wonder if he’s lying.

“I also brought”—he reaches into the bag and pulls out a small box, opening it to reveal a doughy, sugar-crusted blue triangle—“a blueberry scone.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Try it?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

I squint. “Is this a weird baker thing?”

He chuckles. “Try it.”

I remove it from the box, side-eyeing him with a fine, whatever smile as I take a bite.

Oh God.

I cup a palm under my mouth to catch any falling pieces. It’s good—too good—with a thin layer of sugary, hardened crust but a soft, fluffy inside. The blueberries taste almost fresh. I wonder if this is what having a baker friend is like. Constant, unimaginably tasty food.

“It’s really good,” I say, but weirdly enough, Cliff doesn’t seem satisfied.

Instead, he lets out a low hum as he crosses the kitchen to rip open another drawer to pull out parchment paper.

“What?” I ask. “It is good.”

“But it’s not there yet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s a weird baker thing,” he says with a smile, mocking my words from earlier. He knocks his chin toward a cabinet behind me. “Mind grabbing a bowl for me?”

I set the remainder of my scone back in the box and open the cabinet to find a set of stacked bowls nested inside each other.

“Do you know where everything is?” I ask.

He nods. “I’ve spent more time here than in my own house this past year.”

“I can’t believe you were so close to my mom.”

“She was a good lady. Better to my girls than their own mom.” He chuckles. “Funny how that works out.”

I hum noncommittally, but my mind is stuck, like a snagged sweater, slowly unraveling the thoughts of my own mom. Our complications.

I set down the bowl, and within moments, he’s whisking sugar and flour. He explains the baking steps as he fills another bowl with wet ingredients. He says he uses whole milk so it’s richer and this brand of yeast because it’s quicker for my specific needs.

His secret is a bit more butter because, “Well, it’s butter,” he answers with a shrug.

Cliff then rolls up his loose cable-knit sweater sleeves, slaps the dough onto flour-coated parchment paper, and starts kneading the mix with his palms. Spreading and pulling, sending puffs of white over his pulsing forearms. I find myself breathing heavier, swallowing deeper, and tapping incessantly on the counter beside him.

I didn’t realize baking was … this. Strong forearms and deft hands.