If It Makes You Happy(52)

His low, husky laugh acknowledges my silence. “Naughty. But we’re not those types of friends.”

It’s funny though; my heart tightens at his instant denial.

I swallow. “I wasn’t thinking that.”

“Of course not,” Cliff whispers.

I stumble into a wall. He laughs, but it’s instantly muffled, like he covered his own mouth.

“And you were worried about me being the rambunctious one,” I say.

“Shush,” he teases.

I can’t help but grin.

We turn another corner, and I enter what feels like a smaller space that smells like Thanksgiving. A door snicks closed behind me. Cliff places his palms on either side of my arms.

“Okay, stay here,” he whispers.

When his hands leave, I suddenly feel the chill in the room. Distantly, Cliff’s footsteps creak on the wooden floor. I don’t like standing here like this. My fists shake, but then warm palms wrap around them once more.

“Okay, nervous woman,” he murmurs. “Ready?”

I choke out a laugh. “You’ve got a chain saw, don’t you?”

He chuckles. “Nah, I’ll save that for trick-or-treating next week.”

Cliff’s fingers twist through my hair, untangling the tie’s knot behind my head. I inhale, and there’s that hint of citrus again. Normally, he smells like vanilla and cinnamon—a working baker. But beneath that, there’s now something else. A cologne that’s uniquely Cliff. A person beneath the charismatic baker he wants everyone else to see. I wonder how many people get this close to him to know.

The tie slides off my eyes, softly slipping over my cheeks and disappearing.

“Open your eyes.”

I blink a few times and let myself take in Cliff’s room. The overhead light is off, and the room is lit by the orange glow of a lamp in the corner and dancing shadows on the cream wallpaper. Pictures of him and the girls hang in wooden frames around the room. Low bookshelves line the walls, some with stacks of books on top—mystery novels and a few by Stephen King. A desk sits in the corner with a lamp, scribbled notes on yellow legal paper, and a square TV. A brown alarm clock blinks red numbers on his bedside table. It’s almost eleven thirty. His bed takes up most of the room, and placed precariously on a wooden cutting board is a chicken potpie with three lit candles stuck in the center, a line of wax dribbling slowly down one side.

“Happy birthday,” Cliff says. “You said you don’t like big celebrations. And there’s no way you ate dinner tonight. Also”—he picks up the remote to the TV—“I checked what’s on TV tonight, and you’re in time for Saturday Night Live.”

My mouth opens and closes. “Cliff …”

“I hear Chris Farley is hosting—”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “Cliff … this is—”

“All right?” he finishes for me with an unsure lilt to his words. “Is it all right?”

“It’s all right,” I agree, but all right comes out more like perfect, and I can tell he knows. I reach up to twist my earring. “This, uh … this isn’t because of the card today, is it?”

His face scrunches up. “I’ve been planning this since you first told me about your birthday.” Cliff waggles his eyebrows. “Alex made it easier for me to look good doing it.”

“His name is Allen,” I correct.

“I know,” he says, a wicked smile dancing on his face.

I laugh again, taking in the flickering birthday candles and moving shadows.

“You’re really something, Clifford Burke.”

He chuckles. “I’ll let myself imagine what that something is.” He inhales, then lets it out. “All right, well …”

Cliff steps toward the door, as if taking his leave. I shoot my hand out before I think about it. My fingers linger on the outside of his palm. His eyes widen, drifting from my fingers up to meet my stare. His lips part in surprise. His chest expands like he’s holding his breath, and his blue eyes dart between mine. I don’t say anything for a moment because this expression is so new to me. I didn’t know it was possible to throw Cliff off guard like this.

“Don’t go,” I say.

“I figured you’d want some quiet alone time outside the inn.”

“You’re not gonna leave me on my birthday though, are you?”

He blinks down to my hand, twisting his palm around to squeeze mine.

“I guess that would be unfair,” he says.

“Very.”

A grin slides up the corner of his mouth. He releases my hand and picks up the pie from the bed.

“It’s on channel three,” he instructs.

I scoot back on the bed until I can rest against the headboard. Kicking off my house shoes, I extend my feet out, my toes wiggling underneath my sheer black tights.

As I click through the channels, Cliff cuts out two slices—one for each of us—and places them on plates. He leans across the mattress to hand me mine.

Once he has his own, Cliff crawls on the opposite side, shuffling over the fluffy tan comforter until he’s situated beside me. His legs stretch out, too, though his black socks extend well past my own feet. We wiggle our toes side by side.

And together, with our plates of potpie, we eat with tiny forks beside the dim lamp and the cool glow of the TV.