11. Michelle
Chapter 11
Michelle
“ O kay, them. Right there,” Cliff whispers.
“Why them?”
“Look at them,” he murmurs into my ear, his voice low.
Cliff and I are crouched at the top of the stairs, peering through the spindles of the banister that overlook Bird I know.”
He takes a step forward, placing heavy, large palms on my shoulders. I hiss in a breath. That’s the thing about Cliff—he touches everyone, and it’s always warm.
“Why do you think I own a bakery?” he asks.
I tilt my head to the side. “Because no company would put up with you.”
He grins. “Because I like being my own boss. But sometimes, even I need help, which is why I hired Carol. And”—he squeezes my shoulders once before letting go—“yes, being an employee somewhere sounds like torture.”
“Did you ever work a job?” I ask curiously.
He scratches behind his head. “In another life. Before the bakery.”
“Why’d you quit?”
He shrugs and simply says, “Freedom.”
I twist my lips to the side, and he laughs.
“Also, I’m damn good at baking. So, let’s move on to that next. Maybe we’ll have more luck there.”
I groan.
“God, you’re worse than Emily sometimes—you know that?”
“Are you calling me a teenager?”
He lowers his gaze down to my black clogs and back up. “If the shoe fits.”
I grimace. “Funny.”
We walk down the stairwell. I exhale a breath upon seeing the map couple gone. With them and the other guest out sightseeing, the house is empty for the first time all morning.
We enter the kitchen. The strong scent of cinnamon filters from the oven.
“Mmm.” Cliff rubs his palms together. “Smells promising.”
Good .
I expected Cliff to be irritated that I’d started without him, but instead, he laughed at my proactiveness. I’m quickly realizing that not much bothers Cliff Burke. It’s such a contrast to Allen, who would have given up teaching me altogether had I pulled a stunt like that. Part of me wonders if that’s what I wanted to happen.
These are my cinnamon rolls. I started baking last night and have made three terrible batches since then. I wanted to prove I can do whatever he can. Maybe I’m not good with people, but I don’t need baking lessons on top of it. And I can feel it— this is the batch that will prove it.
Cliff squeaks open the oven. I stand on my toes to look over his shoulder, and my face falls. The rolls are a dark brown, and even I can see that’s probably too brown.
Cliff’s eyes widen before swiveling over to me. “How long have these been in here?”
“My mom’s recipe said thirty-five minutes.”
He snorts. “No, it didn’t.”
“I think I know what it said. I read it this morning.”
“Not closely enough,” he says, crossing the kitchen to a drawer.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Oh, really? And how do you know?”
He grins. “Because I wrote it for her.”
Of course he gave my mom this recipe.
I curl my lips in to silence myself as embarrassment slides down my spine like a freezing ice cube.
Cliff snatches mittens from the first drawer he finds. He seems to know where everything is in this kitchen.
When Cliff’s back is facing me, I slip my finger into the bookmarked section of Mom’s black binder and reread her cinnamon roll recipe. I grumble. Cliff was right. They were only supposed to be in there for twenty -five minutes. Tonguing my cheek, I look back, and Cliff is already smiling.
“Was I right?” he asks.
“You were right.”
The cocky, familiar smile spreads across his face, and he looks at the ceiling, as if praying to heaven. “I love it when that happens.”
He slides on the mittens, opens the oven, and takes out the deep dish of rolls, placing the pan onto the spare towel on the counter. He drops the gloves and pulls out a fork from yet another drawer he instinctively knows will contain flatware and unceremoniously cuts into a roll, spearing it at the end of the tongs.
Cliff blows on it first, then slowly takes a bite. I watch the metal tips disappear between his lips and stare as it steadily slides back out, tugging part of his bottom lip with it. His tongue flicks to the corner of his mouth, licking a smidgen of leftover cinnamon. Why does it feel like slow motion?
“That’s terrible.”
I blink back to the present and shake my head. “Terrible?”
“Terrible,” he repeats. “The worst roll I’ve ever tasted. Toss it out.”
I open and close my mouth, trying to find words until I see a sly, lopsided smile. My lips straighten into a line. “You’re messing with me.”
He chuckles. “It was in there too long, so it’s a little stiff. It’s not bad though.” He raises his eyebrows and lowers them. “But you can do better.”
Cliff digs in a brown grocery bag set on the floor and pulls out flour. Rocket’s head lifts from the rug as he sniffs the air.
“You brought more ingredients?” I ask as he removes sugar next. I sigh. “You knew we’d have to remake it.”
“Thought I’d let you try first,” he says with a little wink. A wink so casual that my heart stutters.
I don’t know the last time anyone winked at me.
“And, yes,” Cliff says, leaning in closer like we’re sharing a secret, “I had a feeling you’d try before I got here, so I brought extra.”
I drop my shoulders and roll my head back. His low laugh rumbles in his throat as he dips both arms into the bag again. He emerges with two sandwiches in clear zipped bags, presenting them to me in his palms.
“Ham or turkey?”
“You made lunch for me too?” I ask, almost whining. “Cliff, please …”
“I’m not gonna invite myself over, then ask you to make me a sandwich. I got them from Betty’s sandwich shop. Ham or turkey?”
“Cliff, you’re already helping me?—”
“Ham or turkey, Michelle.”
I hold out my palm and sigh. “Turkey then.”
“Good. Ham is my favorite.” Even though Cliff smiles when he says it, it doesn’t reach his eyes. That crease beside his lips isn’t as deep as it could go.
He sets his sandwich aside. I wonder if he’s lying.
“I also brought”—he reaches into the bag and pulls out a small box, opening it to reveal a doughy, sugar-crusted blue triangle—“a blueberry scone.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“Try it?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
I squint. “Is this a weird baker thing?”
He chuckles. “Try it.”
I remove it from the box, side-eyeing him with a fine, whatever smile as I take a bite.
Oh God.
I cup a palm under my mouth to catch any falling pieces. It’s good—too good—with a thin layer of sugary, hardened crust but a soft, fluffy inside. The blueberries taste almost fresh. I wonder if this is what having a baker friend is like. Constant, unimaginably tasty food.
“It’s really good,” I say, but weirdly enough, Cliff doesn’t seem satisfied.
Instead, he lets out a low hum as he crosses the kitchen to rip open another drawer to pull out parchment paper.
“What?” I ask. “It is good.”
“But it’s not there yet.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a weird baker thing,” he says with a smile, mocking my words from earlier. He knocks his chin toward a cabinet behind me. “Mind grabbing a bowl for me?”
I set the remainder of my scone back in the box and open the cabinet to find a set of stacked bowls nested inside each other.
“Do you know where everything is?” I ask.
He nods. “I’ve spent more time here than in my own house this past year.”
“I can’t believe you were so close to my mom.”
“She was a good lady. Better to my girls than their own mom.” He chuckles. “Funny how that works out.”
I hum noncommittally, but my mind is stuck, like a snagged sweater, slowly unraveling the thoughts of my own mom. Our complications.
I set down the bowl, and within moments, he’s whisking sugar and flour. He explains the baking steps as he fills another bowl with wet ingredients. He says he uses whole milk so it’s richer and this brand of yeast because it’s quicker for my specific needs.
His secret is a bit more butter because, “Well, it’s butter,” he answers with a shrug.
Cliff then rolls up his loose cable-knit sweater sleeves, slaps the dough onto flour-coated parchment paper, and starts kneading the mix with his palms. Spreading and pulling, sending puffs of white over his pulsing forearms. I find myself breathing heavier, swallowing deeper, and tapping incessantly on the counter beside him.
I didn’t realize baking was … this . Strong forearms and deft hands.
Cliff looks toward me, and I hold his gaze. I know I’m overcompensating with how hard I’m staring because this man cannot know I was watching him work like that.
“Birdie talked about you,” he says. “A lot.”
My heart drops. “She did?”
“You and Sara.”
“Probably more about Sara. She’s more exciting.”
“Mmm,” he muses again, returning to the steadily forming dough. “No. Both of you. You were …”
“The more serious one?”
He chuckles. “The responsible one. She worried about you sometimes.”
I look down at my feet and inhale. But my eyes travel to the binder like they have a mind of their own.
Dear Sara .
Cliff stares at me with his eyebrows stitched in the middle, like he could hear the circles I was running through in my head.
“Everyone here saw pieces of Mom I didn’t,” I murmur on a breath, and one look at Cliff’s attentive face has me adding, “Or … didn’t want to maybe.” I part my lips, in shock that I even said that, and I quickly close them again. “Just … if I’m being honest.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Fair enough.” He clears his throat. “You know, your relationship with Birdie reminds me a lot of Emily and her mom.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Emily and Tracy are … tumultuous together, to say the least. You seem that way with Birdie.”
I swallow and don’t address it. “Emily’s a teenager. Of course they’re tumultuous.”
“It’s more than that. Tracy makes it obvious that Emily was unplanned. That she’s the reason we’re tied together.”
My mouth drops open. “Do you think that?”
“Hell no,” he snaps so quickly that I almost jump back. “Emily was a surprise. And, sure, I’m now tied to Tracy in some way for the rest of our lives. But that’s not Emily’s burden. And it’s unfair that Tracy puts that on her.” He looks into the flour as his smile tugs his mouth to the side, like whatever thoughts going through his brain soothe him. “For all we’ve put her through, Emily’s such a great kid. I feel like I blinked, and suddenly, she has opinions and interests. And it’s weird that she’s into boys—and not just boys, but … boys with hormones and peach fuzz.” He shakes his head with a breathy laugh.
“Do you miss when she was Brittany’s age?” I ask.
“Yes. And no.” He shrugs with another smile. “Every phase gets better and better. She’s a little bit of a jerk sometimes, but, God, I love that about her. She’ll probably kill Josh if he ever hurts her.” He chuffs out a laugh. “If I don’t get to him first.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, thanks for that.”
“For what?”
“Listening.”
“You talk so much; it’s hard not to.”
He smirks. “I know.”
“And you’re very open about your ex.”
“There’s no point in keeping any of it to myself now. Don’t you feel the same?”
“No,” I admit.
“No?”
“Just because you don’t have anything to be ashamed of from your marriage doesn’t mean I don’t.”
Removing his hands from the dough, he tilts his head to the side with a smile. I can already tell I’ve presented a challenge he can’t resist.
“Tell me one single secret, Michelle.”
“A secret?”
“That’s what I said.”
“No.”
I distract myself by grabbing my turkey sandwich. He eyes it before quickly averting his gaze. When he looks away, I switch it out for the ham.
“Aren’t we friends?” he teases. “I told you about Tracy. Tell me about what’s his face.”
“Allen,” I correct.
“Right. The loser.”
“He’s not a loser. He’s … well, he’s a doctor actually.” I give a pointed stare. “ Not a loser.”
“He’s a loser,” Cliff repeats, moving back to kneading dough. “Why else would he cheat on you? You’re stunning.”
My heart skips as I stammer, “Wh-what?”
“That’s not an opinion. That’s a fact. You are. Even when you scowl at me.”
Then, slowly, Cliff peers up through hooded eyes, scanning from my lips down to my waist and back up. Goose bumps press into the fabric of my shirt.
“You’re stunning. And he’s a bonehead.”
I click my tongue and nod. “That’s … well … thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I shift from one foot to the next, eyeing his moving arms … the little popping veins and?—
“You mentioned another life,” I say.
“When?”
“Upstairs. Before the bakery. What did you do?”
“Sales.”
“That’s not bad,” I say. “I work in advertising.”
“And do you like it?” he asks.
“I love it.”
He smiles to himself. “Well … I didn’t. It’s what Tracy wanted.” He nods to the stack of paperwork on the counter. They’re faxed papers from Mark. The logo for Topsy’s Travel Agency—our biggest client in Washington—is displayed on the first page . “Are you working your Seattle job, even out here?”
“I can’t help myself.”
“Love it that much, huh? Why?”
“I don’t know … I do. It’s hard to describe.”
“I assume that’s not the juicy secret I’ll be getting today,” he says with a side smile.
Cliff is so unabashedly honest. So himself.
“Fine,” I say. “You want a secret?”
“The best one you got,” he confirms.
“I …” I tilt up my chin. “I hated when Allen snored.”
Guilt roils through me. Like I shouldn’t be talking about my husband— ex -husband—like that.
Cliff opens his mouth in a mocking gasp. “Whoa, tone it down over there. That’s hard-hitting. I can’t handle that level of cruelty.”
Cliff relaxes into a teasing, lopsided grin, and that little piece of me—the one that felt guilty for even bringing up a silly annoyance—breaks apart and flits down to the ground. Because my answer wasn’t that serious and Cliff’s question wasn’t either.
I choke out a laugh and step forward to push his shoulder. “Hey! You asked for a secret, and I gave you one.”
He stares at the small spot where I touched him, then grins. “Barely.”
“That was big for me.”
He chuckles in sync with me, as he darts his eyes down to my lips. Similar to his lack of personal space, Cliff also has no issues lingering with his gaze either. My smile quickly fades, descending into a defensive frown.
He flicks his eyes up to meet mine once more. “See? I was right. You’re beautiful, even when you scowl.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, shut up, Cliff.”
But the simple moment has me smiling, and I can’t wipe it off my face.
He glances at the sandwich next to me, then at the switched one closer to him on the counter.
“Change your mind?” he asks.
“I could tell turkey is actually your favorite.”
“You said you wanted it though,” he says. “I was trying to be nice.”
“And I’m trying too.”
We exchange another small smile, and he goes back to kneading the dough.
Cliff can be frustrating.
But I also kinda like him.
A little bit.