If It Makes You Happy(50)

I meant nothing to him.

I’m entering a new decade without the man I spent most of the previous one with. And it feels … aimless.

The kitchen door swings open to the dining room, and Emily halts in place when she sees us sitting on the floor, holding hands. Brittany bursts through after, but Emily palms her face and pushes her back into the kitchen.

Brittany’s muffled “What are you—” is overshadowed by the squeaking of her sneakers on the hardwood.

Emily walks her back. “I want another Pop-Tart, Britt Britt. Move it or lose it.”

“Emily!” she whines.

“Move, or I’ll read your diary.”

“It’s locked!”

“It’s plastic.”

Through a cacophony of arguing as both girls disappear back into the kitchen, Cliff’s hands don’t leave mine.

“Hey,” he whispers.

I look up. A smile waits for me—the one with delicate creases beside his eyes.

“I’ve never met the guy or anything, but … your ex is a jackass. You know that, right?”

I manage a small laugh, looking down at the card. “He’s … yeah, he really is.”

“You deserve more than a birthday card from someone you were married to for years,” he says.

“Five years,” I clarify.

“Five years,” he echoes.

“I wasted most of my twenties on him. And he gets to … move on. Like it never happened.” I slap the card against my palm. “Is it that hard to make sure I’m not on the recipient list?”

“Easy really.”

“I can’t believe I’m starting over. I’m in my thirties. No guy wants a thirty-year-old.”

Cliff grins. “I love women in their thirties.”

I tsk and tug at the end of my hair. “You know I saw a gray hair for the first time the other morning?”

“Join the party,” he says with a chuckle. “I’ve got a mess of them.” He runs a finger through his hair, lifting the longer strands to reveal a smattering of salt and pepper along his temple.

I gasp. “How did I never notice that?”

“It’s my secret stash.”

I tilt my head to the side. “See? But that’s attractive.”

“It’s attractive?”

“Men don’t have to worry about getting older. You get more … refined with age. And we women get cast as witches and hags.”

“A reliable Halloween costume, if you ask me.”

I shoot him a glare, and he gently smiles.

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret. Men? We want women. Period. Over thirty. Forty. Hell, over sixty. Short, tall, brunette, blond—doesn’t matter. We like them all. Especially women over thirty.”

I snort, and he smiles wider, leaning in.

“And especially women with gray hair.”

The nerves in my fingers pulse with him this close. I can smell the vanilla and cinnamon from the bakery. And a hint of something else … citrus?

“Don’t let Lisa hear you,” I joke, my voice a little shaky. “With the gray-hair thing.”

“Oh, she wishes,” Cliff drawls with a grin.

I look away, fiddling with the card in my lap again, but then our gazes snag in place. They always do. His blue eyes dart between mine. The world narrows in on us—only us.

“It gets better out there, I promise,” he whispers.

I sheepishly confess, “Men don’t want women like me.”

“Like what?”

Unfun, too serious, workaholics.

“I don’t know,” I mumble.

He gives a devilish, absolutely wicked smile. “I think men secretly want women just like you,” he growls, leaning even closer. “And the men who don’t are cowards.”

I swallow, the resonating crack of the c in his last word pumping to the beat of my pounding heart—so hard that I can barely breathe.

“Let me help you this afternoon.”

“What?” I ask, blinking back.

Suddenly, all the noise surrounding us returns. A hum of a distant TV. The girls talking in the kitchen. Hardwood creaking from footsteps upstairs.

“Around the inn,” Cliff says.

“Why?”

“Because,” he says with a shrug, “you need to relax. I can check the reservations or make beds. Birdie used to keep a list—”

“Do you know everything about this place?” I ask.

He tilts his head side to side. Then his lips quirk up into a lazy smile. “Yes. So let me help you.”

I nod. “Okay.”

Cliff stands, then holds out a hand for me. He jerks me up, and I stumble into him, my palms splayed over his chest. It’s harder than I expected. Larger. I step away, blinking through the sudden touch. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he pretends not to.

He bends to the ground and picks up the card, extending it to me. “Want it?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

I expect him to be disappointed in me for caving in to nostalgia, but he hands me the card without judgment.

“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?” he asks.

“I … actually, I need to do things for the project at work.”