If It Makes You Happy(59)

Seattle Halloween and Copper Run Halloween couldn’t be more different. Instead of honking cars, there are whistling breezes. There aren’t secret, invite-only spooky parties, but instead, the entire town is a celebration, complete with yard themes and businesses covering their glass windows from top to bottom in Frankensteins or witches.

I’m not accustomed to feeling the holiday spirit like this.

The bakery’s glass door swings out with a ding. Cliff leans on the doorframe. His hair is wild. Its usual color of fallen autumn leaves is now flaked with specks of powdered sugar—probably from the same incident that caused the hand resting on the doorjamb to be coated as well. His apron is stained with what I assume is orange and white icing. Beneath it, he wears only a white T-shirt. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in anything less than long sleeves. Somewhere in the back, a radio blasts some Billboard Hot 100 alt rock song I hear too often but can never name.

The crease beside Cliff’s mouth deepens, and a half smile slinks onto his lips. “What a pleasant surprise.”

I duck under his arm and walk inside. “I got kicked out by your sister.”

Cliff chuckles, snicking the door shut behind us and securing the dead bolt. The overhead lights in the bakery lobby are turned off. Only beams of fluorescents bleed out from the back. The place smells incredible, like vanilla and cinnamon spice and cakes. It smells like Cliff.

“What did you do this time?” he asks.

“My job.”

“Ah, don’t you know that Carol hates people who work?”

He follows me to the kitchen, where I halt on sight. It’s a disorganized mess. The steel prep table is overwhelmed by thrown-aside icing piping bags, used cookie cutters, an explosion of sugar, and trays of cupcakes with heat rising from their puffed tops.

“Impressed by my disaster?” Cliff asks. “If Carol could kick me out of this bakery, I guarantee she would.”

“Why can’t she?”

He leans closer and growls out, “Because nobody bakes like I do.”

His cocky smile lifts at the edge of his mouth as he bypasses me with his hard chest brushing against my back. I stiffen in place. His ability to say things and have them be confident like that is pure talent.

“You look busy,” I say.

“It doesn’t only look that way,” he responds. “I am.”

“How can I help?”

“You work addict,” he teases right as the oven beeps. He nods his chin toward it. “Wanna get that?”

I do as he said. I notice him watching, leaning against the table with his arms crossed as his eyes rove over my shoulders and arms.

“I like your hair like that.”

“O-oh,” I stammer out. “Uh, with my hair pulled back?”

“Yeah, you look good.”

“It’s just my hair.”

“That and the way you’re pulling the pan out of the oven,” he says. “You look like a natural. You’re not burning yourself at least.”

“As far as you know.”

He absentmindedly points out a rack I can set the tray on as he pushes off the prep table. Cliff stalks closer, reaching out to trace his hand over my elbow. His thumb strokes over the faint burn above the crease in my arm. Goose bumps roll over me as I swallow.

“It’s mostly faded,” he observes.

“It’s gonna be red for a while, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Maybe forever. It’s a battle scar. We all get them.”

I roll my eyes. “You? The professional baker?”

“Professional? Please.”

He rolls up the short sleeves of his T-shirt and holds out his arms, flipping the undersides out for display. I’ve never noticed the faded imperfections along his skin. His arms have always been hidden beneath sweaters or partially rolled-up flannel, but now I see a line or two along his upper arms—curving with strong biceps I’ve also never seen—and one faded scar close to his muscled shoulder.

“Wow. I’m truly in the baker club,” I say.

He scoffs out a laugh. “I’ll get you a membership card. They’re edible.”

I grin and roll my eyes.

Cliff jerks his sleeves back down. He grabs a new sheet of parchment paper and tosses flour on top before taking whatever he recently rolled and spreading it out again. I watch his hands knead and stroke. His wrist twists when he reaches for one of the abandoned icing containers. It’s funny how Cliff’s chaotic energy seems to get laser-focused when he’s working on a prep table.

“Yes?” Cliff asks.

I jump. “What?”

“You think very loud. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“You have.”

“Ah,” he says, throwing me a knowing smirk. “By the way, see the little box over there? I’ve got a new weird baker thing for you.”

I grin. I’m starting to look forward to his weird baker things.

I open the box. Inside is a diamond-shaped pastry, folded in the middle over a thin layer of what looks like jam. Powdered sugar is sprinkled on top. It looks delectable. Cliff doesn’t need to instruct me to taste; I already have it halfway to my mouth.

One bite is enough to likely rival any food that could exist in heaven. I inhale and exhale.

“Cliff—”