Make Me Yours: The Bellamy Creek Series

by Harlow, Melanie

  I laughed. “She’s Italian, I take it?” Moretti’s family was like my mother times a hundred—constantly on him to find a nice girl, settle down, and have kids. Lately his father had been threatening to retire and leave the family construction business, Moretti & Sons, to his younger brother Pietro, who was already hitched and had two little kids.

  “She’s at least Catholic, which is what they really care about. And she’s cool. But . . .” He cringed. “She’s a little young.”

  “How young?”

  “Just turned twenty.”

  I laughed. “Legal, at least.”

  “Legal, yes, but have you tried talking to a twenty-year-old recently? Sometimes I feel like I have no idea what she’s saying. I never thought I’d say this, but I might be too . . .”

  “Old for her?” I supplied.

  “Mature for her,” he stated, sitting up taller in the booth and running a hand over his dark, wavy hair. “Not old.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean, her big ambition is to be an Instagram influencer,” he said. “What the hell kind of job is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She was fucking born in the year 2000,” he said, shaking his head. “I was thirteen that year, jerking off to pictures of Britney Spears in that little plaid skirt. I had a filthy mouth and an even filthier mind. And she was, like, a baby.”

  “She’s not a baby now,” I said, trying to be helpful.

  “No, but . . .” His dark brows furrowed. “It weirds me out. The priest was looking at me during Mass this morning, and I felt like he was judging me.” He paused. “Although that could have been because I haven’t gone to Mass in months.”

  “What made you go today?”

  “I need to get back on my parents’ good side before they ruin my life by giving the business to fucking Pietro. If that means going to Mass and dating an adolescent whatever-a-grammer, I gotta do it.”

  I laughed. “Have you taken her out on a date?”

  “We’ve had dinner a couple times. You know, you could join us next time. I could see if Reina could bring a friend or something. At least we’d have each other to talk to.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s closer to Mariah’s age than mine. No, thanks.”

  Moretti groaned. “I wish my dad wasn’t being such a dick about this whole ‘settling down by age thirty-five’ bullshit. It’s fucking medieval.”

  “But not a surprise,” I pointed out. “You’ve always known what they expected of you.”

  He frowned. “I know, but thirty-five used to seem a lot farther away than it does now.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said as the waitress dropped off my coffee and Moretti’s beer.

  He took a big gulp of it. “What did you want to ask me about?”

  “I want to buy a house.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You’re moving out of your mom’s?”

  “Yes. It’s time.”

  “I agree.” He frowned as he picked up his phone from the table. “Let me get some info from you. Do you have a realtor you’d like to work with?”

  “You think I need one?”

  He shrugged. “Not necessarily. I know the area and the comps around here pretty well. You’ll have to hire an appraiser and probably a lawyer to look over the contract, but a realtor isn’t a must.”

  “Good. I’ll stick with you.”

  “Any particular neighborhood?”

  I thought for a moment. “I guess it would be convenient to be close enough to my mom’s that Mariah could walk or ride her bike there. But if we couldn’t find the right house near enough, I’d deal with it.”

  Moretti nodded. “Three bedrooms?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Number of full baths?”

  “Maybe two?” I liked the idea of Mariah and I each having our own bathrooms.

  “Attached garage?”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Square footage?”

  I shrugged. “No idea. I’d say maybe like twelve to fifteen hundred?”

  “Any preference for particular style, like a ranch or colonial?”

  “Nah.” I thought for a moment. “I’d like a nice-sized yard though. Maybe a patio or deck. I could build one if there’s enough space.”

  “Got it.” We discussed my price range, and he put his phone away. “I’ll get back to you in a day or so with some options.”

  * * *

  Tuesday afternoon while I was at work, Moretti left me a voicemail. “Hey, I found some listings you might be interested in. I’ll email you the links. If there are any you want to see, maybe we can get appointments this weekend, although with the holiday, I’m not sure. Anyway, let me know your work schedule. I can never remember what days you’re on or off.”

  My work schedule was a little confusing since it varied every week—a rotating series of two or three days on, followed by two or three days off—but I liked it. Shifts were long, but I never worked more than three days in a row, and every other week I got three consecutive days off. I could volunteer at Mariah’s school, get household projects done, run errands . . . and if the days fell over a weekend, sometimes Mariah and I went to visit Trisha’s parents, who lived in Indiana now.

  After dinner that evening, I opened my laptop at the kitchen table and looked at the listings Moretti had sent. There were ten of them, but a few I was able to dismiss right off the bat—too expensive, too far from my mom’s, too small. But three or four of them had potential, and I invited Mariah to come sit next to me and look at the photos. Thankfully, my mother was at the usual Tuesday night meeting of the Ladies Benevolent Sewing Circle, where the grandmotherly ladies of Bellamy Creek pieced together quilts for families in need while discussing all the latest rumors. They spread as much gossip as benevolence, if you asked me. I’d show her the listings too, of course, but I wasn’t really interested in her opinions just yet.

  Mariah seemed excited to see the houses in person—there was one with a little doghouse in the yard, and she hoped the house came with a puppy—so I gave Moretti a call back right away.

  “Hey,” he said when he picked up. “Have a chance to look at those listings yet?”

  “We did.”

  “See anything you like?”

  “Definitely. I’m off Thursday and Friday this week, but I’m assuming since Thursday is Thanksgiving, that day is out. Would it be possible to get appointments on Friday?”

  “Maybe. Reply with the addresses you want to see and I’ll make a couple calls tomorrow.”

  “You sure? I don’t want this to take up your workday or anything.”

  “I’m sure. I’m not that busy this week.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks a lot. I owe you.”

  I’d just hit send on the email with the addresses to Moretti when I heard a knock at the back door. Mariah jumped up from the table to go answer it. “It’s Miss Cheyenne,” she said excitedly, pulling the door open. “Hi, Miss Cheyenne. Come on in.”

  My pulse kicked up, and I quickly ran a hand through my hair before turning around in my chair.

  “Hi, Mariah.” Cheyenne smiled as she stepped into the kitchen and shut the door behind her. “Brrr, it’s just getting colder and colder, isn’t it? Think we’ll have snow for Thanksgiving this year?”

  “I hope so,” Mariah said.

  “Me too. Snowy days just make me want to curl up in a window seat with a mug of tea and a good book.” Cheyenne laughed. “Not that I have a window seat.” Then she noticed me sitting at the table, and her smile changed. “Oh. Hey, Cole.”

  “Hey,” I said, rising to my feet and trying hard not to think about how I’d fantasized about her Saturday night. Had I really thought that would get her out of my system? I wanted her even more now. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m hoping you can help me. I had this last-minute idea for a Thanksgiving project for my kindergartners, and I need to make an example to show them, but I don’t have any construction paper. I was hopin
g maybe you had some, Mariah?”

  “I think so.” Mariah hurried over to what my mother referred to as the craft cupboard. “Do you need fall colors?”

  “Sure, if you’ve got them. This is what I want to make.” She tapped her phone screen and held it up. “And I already cut the turkey bodies out from cardboard delivery boxes before realizing I didn’t have anything to make the feathers with. I could probably go in early tomorrow morning and get the example done, but I’ll already have to go in early and cut out five feathers for each kid—which will be a hundred and thirty feathers.”

  I moved closer, checking out the picture on her phone of cardboard turkeys with multicolored feathers that had words written on them like MOM, DAD, MY HAMSTER, SCHOOL, and COOKIES. “Cute. Are those things kids are thankful for?”

  Cheyenne laughed. “Yes. I’ll have their fifth grade reading buddies help them with the writing. We’re hosting the buddies for a project, story, and snack right after the Thanksgiving Sing assembly.”

  “Sounds like a busy day,” I said. I could smell her perfume—not bananas this time, but something floral, feminine and sweet. She was dressed in what looked like her work clothes, fitted navy pants, a navy blouse with flowers all over it, a soft pink cardigan sweater, and beige flats. The front of her hair was neatly pulled back, and her skin seemed luminous, her cheeks pink from the chilly night air. It made me want to warm her up.

  “I found some!” Mariah came rushing over to the table with a stack of colored construction paper. “Will this work?”

  “Absolutely,” Cheyenne said. “Thank you so much. See what we’re making?” She flashed the phone screen at Mariah, who gasped.

  “I want to make one! I wish I was in fifth grade so I could have a kindergarten reading buddy.”

  “Next year,” Cheyenne promised.

  “Can I still make one with you tonight?” she asked hopefully.

  “Sure.” Cheyenne looked at me. “Unless it’s bedtime?”

  I checked the clock on the wall. “She’s got about half an hour—an hour if I’m nice.”

  Laughing, Cheyenne glanced at the kitchen table. “Want to work here or at my house, Mariah?”

  “Here,” Mariah said. “That way Daddy can make one too.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, ruffling her hair, “but I’ll sit with you guys.”

  “Yay!” Mariah ran over to the table for four and pulled out the chair between mine and hers. “Miss Cheyenne, you can sit here.”

  “Okay. But first I need to run back to my house and grab a couple things. I’ll be right back.”

  While she was gone, I quickly snuck up to my room and checked my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. Shit—there was a faint yellow stain on the white T-shirt I’d thrown on after taking off my uniform. After swapping it for a nicer blue one—I remembered how she’d liked me in blue—I ran a brush over my hair and gave myself one squirt of cologne. At the last second, I decided to duck into the bathroom and brush my teeth, so by the time I got back downstairs, Cheyenne and Mariah were already seated at the table, tracing feather shapes onto the construction paper.

  They both looked up at me as I walked into the kitchen.

  “Did you change your clothes?” Mariah asked.

  “Just my shirt,” I said, cursing my daughter for being so observant. “I spilled something on it.”

  “When?”

  “Earlier.” I went directly to the fridge and grabbed a Heineken. “Cheyenne, would you like a beer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “How about a glass of wine?” I asked.

  “Okay.”

  “You like merlot?”

  “I like it all,” she said with a laugh.

  I opened a bottle and poured her a glass, bringing it to the table along with my beer. When I sat down, Mariah studied me carefully.

  “Did you comb your hair?” she asked.

  Self-conscious, I ran a hand over it. “No,” I lied.

  “Oh.” She went back to tracing. A moment later, she picked up her head again and sniffed. “What’s that smell? Dad, are you wearing cologne?”

  Stifling the urge to throttle my kid, I took a long swig from the Heineken bottle and changed the subject. “Maybe I will make one of those things. Got an extra turkey for me?”

  “Of course.” Cheyenne picked up a cardboard turkey cutout and handed it to me.

  I could have taken it from her without any skin-to-skin contact at all simply by grabbing the other end of it.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I reached over and covered her hand with mine—and I didn’t let go. Mariah’s head was bent over her work, so she didn’t notice, but Cheyenne stared at our hands, a blush creeping into her cheeks. Not from the cold this time, but from the warmth of the touch.

  Then I loosened my grip and slid the cardboard from her grasp, setting it in front of me. Immediately I reached for my beer bottle, and Cheyenne did the same with her wine glass.

  My heart was beating hard and fast. I felt ridiculous, like a fifth grader who’d just held hands with a girl for the first time. For fuck’s sake, I’d tackled her on my bed the other night. This was nothing.

  Except, it felt like something.

  Four

  Cheyenne

  Cole Mitchell held my hand.

  Cole Mitchell held my hand.

  Cole Mitchell held my hand.

  I took another sip of wine, traced the same damn feather I’d already traced five times, and reviewed the moment again.

  Had I imagined it?

  I’d picked the cardboard turkey up off the table, held it out to him, and instead of just taking it from me, he’d sort of enclosed my hand inside his and paused for several seconds.

  Could I call that handholding? Did it count? Did it mean anything that he’d changed his shirt, combed his hair and put on cologne? Because Mariah was right—he’d definitely spruced himself up a bit before coming back to the table. Was I flattering myself that it could be for me? But what other reason was there?

  I took another swallow of wine. At this rate, I was going to finish the entire glass inside five minutes.

  “Okay, I’m ready to cut out my feathers,” Mariah announced, reaching for the scissors.

  I snuck a peek at Cole, who was tracing a feather on red construction paper. His profile gave nothing away. He looked the same as he always did—and by that, I mean perfect. I’d always loved the color of his hair, not quite blond, not exactly brown, which he’d worn short as long as I’d known him. His jaw was slightly stubbly, somewhere between a five o’clock shadow and next-morning scruff. His nose was long and straight, his lips and lashes full. But it had always been his eyes that made me melt into a puddle of take me now. They were just so blue. So clear and bright, like they could see into your soul.

  I may have sighed.

  He glanced over at me, and I realized too late that I was staring at him like you’d stare at a double rainbow or a really spectacular pair of Louboutins. Embarrassed, I straightened up in my chair and focused on my work. “I’m about ready to cut out my feathers too.”

  “I’m done cutting out,” said Mariah, setting her scissors aside. “Now I need a glue stick.”

  I handed her a glue stick and forced myself to concentrate on cutting out feathers, but in the silence I discovered I could smell his cologne, which took me down a sexy rabbit hole of imagining his naked body moving over me in the dark, the scent of him filling my head. I thought of that bulge in his pants the other night—the way it felt against my thigh—and how it might feel slowly easing inside my body, inch by hard, thick inch.

  Suddenly I realized I was panting. And both Cole and Mariah were staring at me.

  “Are you okay, Miss Cheyenne?” Mariah blinked at me. “You’re, like, breathing really hard.”

  “Um. I’m fine. I was just . . . thinking about something.” Before I could stop myself, I fucking glanced at Cole’s crotch.

  And he saw me do it.
<
br />   I could tell, because he followed my gaze directly into his lap, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  Shit!

  Setting down the scissors, I grabbed my empty wine glass and held it upside down above my lips until two tiny drops fell into my mouth. Then I shook it, hoping for more.

  “Can I get you another glass?” Cole asked, rising from his chair and adjusting his jeans.

  “Sure,” I said, even though the last thing I needed was to have a headache in the morning. All-school assemblies were enough to make my temples pound on their own.

  But when Cole returned with a second beer for himself and my glass refilled, I gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He took his seat next to me, and I concentrated very hard on keeping my eyes on my work and not breathing too loudly.

  While we finished our turkeys, Mariah chattered a little about some of the houses Cole had shown her online. She was excited about getting to paint her room any color she chose—she was leaning toward yellow—and hoped her dad would let her get a puppy if they bought the one with the doghouse in the yard.

  “Ooh, you should go down to the shelter and pick one out,” I said. During the summer, when I wasn’t teaching, I volunteered at a local shelter. Once I had my own place, I couldn’t wait to rescue a couple animals.

  “Can we, Daddy?”

  “We’ll see,” said Cole, setting down a glue stick. “Okay, I think I’m done.”

  “No, you’re not, you have to write things you’re thankful for on the feathers,” insisted Mariah. “Like this.” She held up her turkey so we could read the words she’d carefully printed. Her feathers read, FAMILY, HOME, SCHOOL, NEIGHBORS, SHELTER DOG.

  “You don’t have a dog yet,” Cole pointed out. “Shelter or otherwise.”

  “I know.” Mariah closed her eyes. “I’m trying to manifest it by positive thinking.”

  I laughed. “Those are good choices, Mariah. And there’s nothing wrong with positive thinking.” Maybe I could manifest sex with Cole if I wrote it on my turkey.

  Cole quickly scribbled words on his feathers and held it up. “Okay, here are mine.”