If It Makes You Happy(55)
She bounces in my arms before pulling away. I reluctantly let go, watching with a wide grin as she circles back to look at the guest book entry again. She’s beautiful like this—thrilled and entirely overwhelmed. I don’t know what lies she tells herself; there’s no way she could be underwhelming.
The phone on the counter rings, and I rush around the side to pick it up.
“Cliff, no!” she says through a laugh.
I hold out my free palm to keep her away, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder.
“Thank you for calling Bird & Breakfast, where the morning cinnamon rolls are divine. This is Clifford. How may I help you?”
“Cliff,” Michelle whines between laughs, bouncing next to me and reaching to grab the phone.
I keep twisting out of her grasp. But the farther I move away, the closer she gets, until her breasts are pushing against my chest and ribs, and then her waist is in my palm and—
Hissing in a breath, I quickly hand the phone back to her.
She’s all smiles—maybe oblivious to what happened, who knows—as she takes the call. But I’m out of breath.
I aimlessly pace out from behind the desk, running a palm through my hair, letting it fall back onto my forehead as I watch the rain trickle off the front porch’s lip. I swallow down the heartbeat soaring into my throat and finally turn around to see Michelle nodding against the phone and tucking the end of her pen between her teeth. The glow of the small lamp on the front desk reflects on her pink cheeks, casting her eyes in a dark shadow, where she peers at me with a grin.
The world tilts. It suddenly feels like I’m falling through the ground, straight to the center of the earth.
God, she’s breathtaking.
As she asks the person on the other end of the line question after question, I could stare at her plump lips all day. They’re full. Dark. Parting only slightly to reveal slivers of straight white teeth.
How the hell did I get privileged enough to see this side of her?
Michelle is a smart woman. A powerful woman. The kind of woman who struts down city streets, holding a thick agenda, filled with high-end events spanning the next two to five months, at a minimum. Meanwhile, my only plans each night are with my two daughters and sister. Maybe drinks with Lars or bingo night with George, if the old man invites me.
We’re so different. Michelle wears polished belts, tailored shirts, and fifty different flavors of designer shoes. I wear flannel and sneakers, and half the time, I’ve got some wisp of flour or sugar somewhere on my skin.
But …
I like her.
My stomach tightens into a hard knot.
I like Michelle.
I’m attracted to Michelle, which isn’t news to me at all, but this heart-pounding affection … it’s foreign yet so oddly familiar, all at once. It’s something I haven’t felt since I was sixteen. Michelle is funny when she wants to be and sometimes when she doesn’t. She’s gorgeous. She’s kind. And most of all, she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an ass.
I swallow audibly, then look away from her.
I have a crush on my very unattainable friend.
Maybe in another world, it could work out. I don’t know what world that would be, but it sure isn’t this one, where I’m a walking tornado and she’s beautiful, out of my league, and leaving in two months.
Michelle looks up and grins as I linger in the threshold.
She waves me off and mouths, Get out of here.
I chuckle.
Yeah, I need to get the hell out of here.
I rush back to the bakery, where a small line files out, wrapping by the window painted with pumpkins and a cartoonish mural of Dracula.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, holding up my palms.
Carol gives me the biggest stink eye imaginable.
“Cliff! You have more muffins back there?” Sandra asks, peering to the side with her arms full of flowers as I stroll back to the kitchen. She must have made a pit stop before another delivery.
“For you? Absolutely,” I answer.
Someone else rubs their palms together, as if they anticipated it.
Vultures, these people, I swear.
I get to work immediately, making my second batch of everything for the day. The food prepped at four this morning has already dwindled down to scraps, so I take out all the prepped food from the fridge and plop those into the oven, one right after the other.
Once the post-lunch rush dies down—including a few extra items, gifted on the house for the long wait—I finally tuck a small batch of new puff pastries in the oven. They’re layered with a jam mix of raspberry and rosemary. I haven’t made them in a while—they’re not exactly a town favorite. But maybe some people will like them this time around. Maybe Michelle will.
Carol finally joins me in the kitchen, leaning her hip against the prep table. “And where were you this afternoon?” she asks.
“The inn.”
“With Michelle again?”
I chuckle. “Yes,” I say slowly.
“Doing what?”
“What’s with the third degree?”
“No reason,” she answers, but it’s said in a faux nonchalant, yes, there is obviously a reason kind of way.
I can’t hide the heat rising up my neck. “She’s my friend—you know that.”
“Your friend?”