If It Makes You Happy

by Julie Olivia

“Hey, maybe let’s not interrogate her,” I whisper. “But you just did.” “Yeah, but I’m a dick, and you’re not, kiddo.”

But I can’t stop staring at her and grinning from ear to ear. She’s so bold and unapologetic.

It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but I swear Michelle’s eyes snap to my fourth finger. I’m the one huffing out a laugh this time.

She continues to not make eye contact, and my eyes rove over her of their own accord. Somehow, her being annoyed with me only makes her prettier. Flushed cheeks serve her well.

It’s the brother—Cliff Burke—who keeps drifting through my mind. Cliff Burke, with his veined hands raking through loose brown hair. Cliff Burke, with his crooked smile and deep laugh. Cliff Burke, who doesn’t understand personal space.

I shake out the irritated feeling in my hands, the remnants of warm sparks that skittered over my skin when he touched me once, twice, who knows how many times yesterday. The palm curled around my waist. The breath in my ear when he steadied the uneasy plates in my hand. The solid body behind me when I fell into him.

I stand, walking over to the phone. Michelle places the receiver in my hand. Her fingers graze mine, and my chest tightens. Her hand is so soft compared to my calloused ones. But any fire I feel disappears when I raise the phone to my ear.

I hear Cliff’s distant laughter, low and rising straight from his chest. Genuine, like everything else he does.

I laugh. “I’ll see you after work, Michelle. Don’t forget the bus.” She tosses a weak thumbs-up without looking away from the sink. “Three o’clock,” I repeat. She shakes her thumb higher in irritation. I laugh. “So happy we’re friends now.” “Don’t make me show you a different finger, Cliff.”

Maybe it’s a baker thing, but I love watching people eat pastries. More specifically, I like how Michelle looks when she eats one of mine.

“Christ, you’re gonna accidentally kill yourself in that kitchen.” “I’m not entirely helpless.” I grin. “This”—I touch her Band-Aid—“and this”—I brush my thumb over the pink burn on her inner arm—“are not helping your case.”

I didn’t realize baking was…this. Strong forearms and deft hands.

“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.

Cliff can be frustrating. But I also kinda like him. A little bit.

“You’re getting the hang of things.” “People smile around me more.” “You’re a good person to smile around,” Cliff says, taking a bite. He does things like that—giving casual compliments like they’re Halloween candy.

He’s so different from me. If I’m autumn, he’s spring. He’s all smiles and glowing warmth. His blue eyes are so deep, like the first beautiful clear sky of the season. He likes to rest them on my breeze-blown hair, drift them down to my painted lips or to the cardigan falling off my shoulder.

I’m on autopilot now, and apparently, my default is to trust Cliff.

I sheepishly confess, “Men don’t want women like me.” “Like what?” Unfun, too serious, workaholics. “I don’t know,” I mumble. He gives a devilish, absolutely wicked smile. “I think men secretly want women just like you,” he growls, leaning even closer. “And the men who don’t are cowards.”

She’s beautiful like this—thrilled and entirely overwhelmed.

The world tilts. It suddenly feels like I’m falling through the ground, straight to the center of the earth. God, she’s breathtaking.

“Don’t do something you think you’ll regret,” I whisper. He shakes his head without hesitation. “I wouldn’t regret this.”

“Ah, screw it.” Cliff sinks his hand into my hair, cups my head, and collides his lips with mine.

He opens his mouth in tandem with mine. An embarrassing whine leaves me. But my sound has him groaning in response too. I’ve never heard such a desperate sound coming from Cliff. I’d never have imagined I’d be so desperate to hear it again.

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.

I don’t want to date anyone. And it’s not because I’m nervous. It’s because I want the storm cloud of a woman in front of me. I want the unattainable. Problem is, I can’t say no to this woman either way.

Unfortunately, I’ve developed this irritating attraction to sour, controlling brunettes. I can’t say no to Michelle. And that is why I’m five minutes away from picking up this woman’s sister for a date.

I don’t want to go on more dates. I want Michelle. Not as a friend. Not as a fling. I want her.

Cliff takes another step. I suck in a breath. He exhales sharply through his nose. And slowly, he clutches my jaw, traces a thumb over my lips, and murmurs, “God, you’re so stubborn.” And then he presses his lips against mine. It hurts, like I deserve. It’s painful, like I need. And I’m melting into it faster than either of us can breathe.

“I like you,” I murmur against her mouth. She moans into it. My hands roam over the waist of her velvet dress, up her spine, over her shoulders, holding her closer—as close as she can get. I’ve touched Michelle in quiet ways for weeks, little bumps or strokes along her knee and forearm, but the freedom to touch wherever I like is like carrying heaven in my palms. And to be touched by her—to have her slender hands trail up my neck and dip into my hair—is all-consuming. The gentle thumb strokes over my temples, the way her lips open for me to sink my tongue into, the little breathy moans when I glide my palms back to her ribs…

I could kiss her forever. I could spend hours tasting her until our lips were sore. But I’d be lying if I said that’s all I want. I want her. I try to push off the couch—to carry her to my bedroom—but we only walk a couple of steps before she pushes me backward. I topple, off-balance, landing on the couch cushions with her standing over me.