If It Makes You Happy(45)

“No. You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” I insist.

Cliff nods to himself silently. And then his palm lands on my knee. I freeze. Cliff isn’t shy to touch. His touch is always gentle. It’s not greedy or wanting or even carrying implications. But he’s also never touched me here. The warmth of his heavy hand and lengthy fingers spans across my entire knee and part of my thigh. It radiates through me in waves of fire. The palm is gone as quick as it landed, but I’m breathless.

He smiles at me, weak and exhausted from the day. “Thanks, Michelle.”

“Yeah,” I answer quickly. “Of course.”

I know I’m flushed. My heart is racing.

I stand, untying Rocket’s leash from the pole and wrapping it around my wrist. I barrel down the sidewalk.

“Bye?” Cliff calls through a husky chuckle.

“Bye!” I yell back to him.

The buzzing through my knee tickles the whole trek back.

Even Rocket glances at me, as if saying, You’re walking funny, Shelly.

“Shut up,” I hiss.

I’m flustered. Flustered by Cliff.

I know Cliff likes physical touch. Little knee touches mean absolutely nothing for him. I’ve seen him wrap an arm around Lisa for no reason or high-five Lars for something as simple as complimenting a croissant. A pat on the back is his standard greeting. But it’s been probably a year since I’ve felt a man’s palm so close to my thigh. And it’s been almost seven years since I’ve been touched by any man except my husband.

Ex-husband.

Cliff is sarcastic and shameless and cocky and … attractive.

I roll my eyes and groan at my own admission.

Obviously. I’d be blind not to notice, of course. He’s got that baker charm. The broad shoulders, built from lugging heavy bags of flour; the thick forearms, strong from molding dough; and the smile of a man well practiced in swaying people to indulge in icing-covered delicacies.

Cliff is attractive when he runs a palm through his hair. He’s attractive when he huffs out frustrated breaths in defense of his daughters. He’s attractive when he smiles, and he’s attractive when he gives that half smirk and the little line beside his lips creases.

But Cliff is so far from my type. Two months ago, I was in a brick brownstone and dressed for dates at white-tablecloth restaurants. That’s who I am. I’m not the kind of woman to lie on a quilted bed and dress down for dinner at the combination pizzeria / coffee shop—which is a monstrosity I have yet to get an explanation for.

I barrel into the bed-and-breakfast, out of breath and gritting my teeth, unhooking Rocket in a hurry, as if I can run from these intrusive thoughts about Cliff. But they’re torn from me when I find Emily sitting on my kitchen floor.

Her knees are pulled up to her chest. Her Converses, stained and ripped, tilt in. Her blond hair hangs in two curtains beside her face.

“You didn’t rat me out,” she states. “Why?”

I cross my arms, trying to calm my heavy breathing from my walk here. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

I swallow. “It didn’t feel like my business to tell.”

“But you’re my dad’s friend,” she says.

I bite my bottom lip. Friend. Cliff Burke is my friend. My funny friend. Not my attractive friend.

“Sure,” I agree. “But I know what it’s like to be a teenager. And, believe it or not, so does your dad.”

“No, he doesn’t get it,” she grumbles. “Not him or Carol or Mom.”

“Your mom doesn’t?”

Emily barks out a laugh. “Oh, sure, she totally gets it.”

I feel borderline assaulted by her over-the-top sarcasm. My lips stretch into a straight line.

She blows out a breath. “Whatever.”

“Is it complicated?” I ask.

“Totally.”

“You know …” I turn and take down coffee grounds and a filter. “I had a complicated relationship with my mom too.”

“With Birdie? As if.”

“I did.”

Emily scoffs. “I would kill for a mom like Birdie.” She rests her chin on her knees. “God, you don’t get it either.”

“Maybe not,” I agree. “Nobody can know what you’re going through, except you.”

She peers up at me through her lashes.

I shrug. “But you’re not the first teen with parent issues—I’ll tell you that.”

She blinks to herself. “Josh is a good guy,” she mumbles more to herself than to me.

I flick on the coffee maker and lean against the counter. I fold my arms over my chest.

“He seems all right,” I say. I tilt my head to the side. “Dumb.” That grants me a small snort of laughter from her. “But pretty all right.”

We exchange a small smile.

“I like him a lot,” she whispers.

“Then let your dad see that,” I say.

“He doesn’t take us seriously.”

“He takes it more seriously than you think.”

“Dad doesn’t want me to end up like him and Mom. But I’m not gonna get knocked up. I’m not that stupid.”

Ouch.