/02/ cliff booth

The delicious smell of macaroni and cheese filled your nostrils as you entered Cliff's house. The older man stopped in his tracks, pot in one hand, box of noodles in the other, his head turned in your direction. "I swear to God I've been sitting on my ass all day," he said , throwing up his hands in mock defense, the lie sliding in as easily as a truth.

Cliff had recently had a pretty serious stunt accident.

A steel tube in his back and all that... Even though he said he was perfectly fine, you and Rick took turns checking on him daily, just in case. So here you were, supposedly making sure Cliff recovered and got proper rest... yet every time you came to check on him, all you saw was him moving around a LOT more than he should.

Brandy pressed her snout against your leg, sniffing your pants. You knew she was talking nonsense. She had her shoes on and her jacket was draped over the back of the sofa, so you knew she'd just come out, which was a big no-no for the recovery process.

Her bright blue eyes scanned your figure from head to toe, as they always did when you walked by. She bit her lip, which made the dimples in her cheeks more prominent, returned to the stove, and placed the pot on it with a metallic "clink. "

"I was hungry. And besides, I'm fine—go tell Rick you're ready for your checkup. I hurt my back, I didn't let myself get paralyzed." She ran a tanned hand through her sandy hair.

The evening air drifted gently through the open window. The breeze did nothing to soften the less-than-pleasant expression on your face or change the unpleasant thoughts swirling in your head. What was so hard about simply sitting down and relaxing? Apparently, Cliff Booth found it ridiculously difficult.