If It Makes You Happy(76)

“It’s too rainy.”

He snorts. I don’t care.

He’s been testy since Halloween—more than usual anyway. He’s eager to get out of the house.

Maybe it’ll be best for both of us when we leave. He won’t be heartbroken over Brittany, and I won’t be desperately grasping for every moment I can with the charming local baker.

It’s pathetic. Selfish.

In two months, Rocket and I can get back to our comfortable, less confusing version of happy.





CHAPTER 23





Cliff




“Brittany, off the counter. Sorry, George.”

George waves his hand with a smile. Brittany kicks her legs out, then back in on the bakery’s front counter. Her heels bang against the hanging sign below.

“Britt Britt, head to the kitchen.” I pat her back, coaxing her down. “I bet Aunt Carol would love to hear a detailed breakdown of Steve’s fight last night.”

Brittany’s lips form a big O as she hops down and rushes to the kitchen.

I exhale and run a palm through my hair.

“Wasn’t she staying at the inn after school?” George asks.

I rest my palms on the counter. “Would you like doughnuts or not, George?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then no questions, please.”

“Is it because of Halloween?”

“George …” I seethe.

He holds his hands up in the air.

“I’ll bring them to your car in a second.”

He gives a grumbling affirmation, then exits through the dinging door.

I stride back to the kitchen and find Carol nodding intently with wide eyes as Brittany regales her with the most recent wrestling match.

“Is that so? Wow,” Carol says, feigning interest.

I lean my hip beside Brittany sitting on the prep table.

“He also does this thing where—”

“Do you have any homework?” I interrupt.

She’s mid-sentence but nods. “Uh-huh.”

“Perfect. Go to my office, start it, and then I’ll lock the door behind you and throw away the key.”

“Dad,” she says through giggles.

“Come on. You’re all over the place today,” I say, pushing my hands under her armpits and lifting her. “Did they give you crack at school?”

“Pixy Stix,” she answers as I carry her on my hip.

“Close enough,” I murmur, kicking open my office door.

My desk is a mess. Papers that are, admittedly, never organized are now haphazard, flopping over the corner and fluttering to the floor in the wind from the open door. Order receipts overflow from their Tupperware, and some of the typed numbers are blurry from streaks of icing. Nothing is where it should be. I’ve been distracted, to say the least.

I unceremoniously swipe an arm over my desk and shove everything to one side. A pen or two clatters to the floor.

“Got your backpack in here?” I ask.

“Yep!” Brittany points to the corner.

She swivels around in my office chair while I unzip it and dig out her folder, placing it on the desk. I grip the back of the chair and halt it.

“Pencils are here.” I prop a cup full of pens and pencils in front of her. “Water bottles are behind you. Coffee machine is in the corner—I know you can’t live without it.”

She giggles. “I don’t drink coffee.”

I kiss her on the forehead. “I’ll check back in an hour, okay? Clock is up there if you wanna keep track,” I say, pointing to the wall clock, which is ticking loud enough to feel like a metronome in my cluttered brain.

“Got it,” she replies, rattling a pencil out of the cup.

I go to close the door, but she yells, “Dad!”

“Yes?”

“You aren’t really gonna lock it, are you?”

I roll my eyes with a smile. “Of course not.”

Shutting the door behind me, I trudge back to the kitchen with a sigh. It’s been a long week since Halloween. Brittany won’t go near the inn, in fear of Rocket, so now she hangs out at the bakery after school. Emily barely talks to me. And everything that happened between Michelle and me is shoved under the rug.

It’s absolutely fantastic.

Not. Emily’s teen voice runs through my head.

The other night, I dreamed about Halloween again. For a fleeting moment, I felt like I was there, palms splayed over Michelle’s back, across her ribs, cupping her cheek. But I woke up, and all I saw was my circling ceiling fan.

I can’t get her flavor out of my mouth. I realize everything I’ve been trying to bake for her is nothing like the real thing. She isn’t cinnamon. She’s honey all the way through, and I need to taste it again.

“Sorry you lost your free babysitting,” Carol says.

I run a palm through my hair, but it does nothing to keep it out of my eyes.

“We can’t help that Brittany is scared of Rocket,” I respond with an exhale. “It’s understandable. But a little less chaos in the bakery would be nice.”

The bell above the door chimes again.

“Be there in a minute, George,” I call.

I rush to grab the doughnuts cooling on the rack. Carol strides past me.