“Sorry, Mariah. It’s just that . . . what the hell is she doing here?”
“Who?” I looked at the charcoal gray Audi in front of us. The license plate read BDR.
“Bianca DeRossi.” Moretti’s tone was venomous.
“Who’s Bianca DeRossi?” Mariah wondered. “She has a fancy name.”
“She’s a real big pain in the”—he stopped himself and reconsidered—“culo.”
“What’s a culo?” Mariah asked.
“Never mind,” I said. “What’s your problem with her?”
Moretti glanced in the back seat. “I’m not sure I can say without using some salty language. Can I swear in Italian?”
“Just give me the highlights. The PG version please.”
Moretti grimaced. “Her family and mine are friends, and she was kind of close to my sister Eva, but she and I have never gotten along.”
“Did we go to school with her?” I asked, trying to recall a Bianca DeRossi.
“No, she went to St. Mary’s,” he said, naming a nearby all-girls Catholic school. “So I only saw her at church or when our families got together.”
“Why didn’t you get along?”
“Because she was an evil little redheaded snot who thought she was too good to talk to me. My parents made me take her to a dance at St. Mary’s once, and she didn’t speak to me the entire night. She brought a book with her, for God’s sake! And she read it the whole time!”
I laughed for the first time all day. “I think I remember that.”
“She also insulted my”—again, he glanced toward the back seat, then cleared his throat—“my manhood.”
“She’s familiar with it?”
“No! That’s the thing. Maybe we used to run around without clothes on or something when we were babies”—Mariah giggled at that—“but definitely not since. Yet she took it upon herself to disparage me in front of a whole group of friends at St. Mary’s—one of whom I later, uh, familiarized—and she told me what Bianca said.” He straightened up in the driver’s seat and held up one finger. “I’d also like to mention that the friend said Bianca was wrong.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed the door handle. “Good. So it’s all ancient history. Can we go in now?”
“No! It’s not ancient history. Because the evil, lying redheaded viper moved home from Chicago last year and has proceeded to outbid me on every house I’ve wanted to buy and flip since. She’s ruthless.”
“She’s a realtor?”
“She’s an interior designer, I think.” He smirked. “The only justice is that she’s still about the size of a ten-year-old girl. Her nickname was Tiny, although if I remember correctly, she hated it.”
“I think it’s cute,” said Mariah.
Moretti glared at her. “Well, she isn’t cute. She’s like a killer bee—small and mean. I bet her culo has a stinger in it.”
I shook my head and opened the door. “Come on.”
As we headed up the front walk, I took note of the house’s exterior. It was an old brick farmhouse with a wraparound porch on one side, empty of furniture for the winter and in desperate need of a paint job. But I immediately pictured it with a fresh coat of white and two rocking chairs, or maybe a glider swing, and an emerald lawn stretching out in front of it. It lifted my mood.
We climbed the porch steps, but before we could knock, the door was pulled open by a woman who was definitely not tall, fifty-something Joy Frankel. This woman was our age and short—five feet nothing—with wavy auburn hair that barely skimmed her shoulders and bright blue eyes behind glasses with thick black frames.
“Oh, hello,” she said, smiling at me and then Mariah. Then her eyes fell on Moretti, and recognition flickered. “Enzo. What a surprise.”
“Bianca,” he said stiffly. “In the market for a new house?”
“Oh, you know,” she said airily, tugging on black leather gloves. “I’m always on the lookout for an investment opportunity. What about you?”
“We’re looking for a house.”
“How nice.” She smiled wider, her eyes moving back and forth between Moretti and me. She held out her gloved hand. “I’m an old family friend, Bianca DeRossi.”
“Cole Mitchell,” I said, shaking her hand. “And this is my daughter, Mariah.”
Bianca smiled at her. “What a beautiful name.”
“I like yours too,” Mariah said shyly.
“My mother never mentioned that you got married,” Bianca said to Moretti. “Congratulations.”
Moretti scowled. “We’re not married.”
She patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, Enzo. Love is love. You don’t have to be ashamed.”
“I’m not ashamed!” he yelled at her back as she headed down off the porch. “And I’m not in love with Cole!”
Bianca turned around and walked backward for a few steps, a huge smile on her face. “Really, you’re a gorgeous couple. You should come by the house sometime. My parents would love to meet your new family. Best wishes to you both!”
“Go to hell!”
She winked at me. “Nice to meet you, Cole. Congrats on tying the knot—Enzo here is quite a catch. Just ask him.”
I couldn’t help laughing as she walked to her car, but Moretti was seething. “See what I mean?”
“Oh, relax. She was kidding,” I said, wondering if I’d just met the one woman on earth who was immune to Enzo Moretti’s smoldering good looks and charismatic charm.
Joy Frankel appeared in the doorway. “Hello,” she said. “Have you been waiting long? I’m so sorry—I was on the phone. Chuckie just called asking about lunch. I swear, the man is fifty-seven years old and still doesn’t know how to make himself a sandwich. Please come in.”
We entered the front hall, and she held out her hand to me. “Cole, right? Or should I call you Officer Mitchell?”
“Cole is fine,” I said, shaking her hand.
“Enzo Moretti. We spoke on the phone.” Moretti held out his hand. “Cole and I are just friends,” he added quickly.
“How nice.” Joy shook Moretti’s hand and turned to Mariah. “And who’s this young lady?”
“This is my daughter, Mariah,” I said. “We’re the ones looking at the house.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Let’s have a look around.”
Straight ahead was a staircase; to the left, the living room. It was empty of furniture, and the floor was carpeted in a matted, ugly brown. But there was something about the room I liked—maybe it was the high ceilings or the original wood paneling. Maybe it was the fireplace or the arched entryway into the dining room. This house had character. I could feel it.
“Sorry about the carpet,” Joy said. “But I promise, beneath it is a gorgeous original wood floor just dying to be polished. You can see it if you pull back the carpet a little. Go on, take a look.”
Moretti wandered over to the corner of the room as Joy handed me a spec sheet. “It’s four bedrooms, two full baths upstairs,” she said. “But there’s plenty of room to expand on the first level. You could build a fabulous master suite.”
“Cole. Take a look at this.”
I walked over to where Moretti had peeled back the musty old carpet to reveal the original wood floor. “Oh. Wow.”
“This floor will refinish like a dream,” Moretti said with confidence.
“I agree,” said Joy. “The same floor is in the dining room, but at some point it was covered with linoleum.”
Moretti groaned. “What is wrong with people?”
Joy laughed. “Wait ’til you see the wallpaper in the bedrooms.”
* * *
Joy was right—the wallpaper in the bedrooms was ridiculous, and the upstairs carpeting was in the same sad shape as the downstairs. But the rooms were spacious, with high ceilings, big windows, and fairly big closets for an old house.
The master bedroom had a fireplace and its own bathroom, and there was a second full bath off the second-floor hallway. Both baths had black-and-white
tiled floors, white tiles halfway up the walls, pedestal sinks, and clawfoot tubs. It was a bit like stepping into a time machine.
“As you can see, the bathrooms need a bit of updating,” Joy said sheepishly.
“No, I like this tub,” said Mariah, climbing into it.
Eventually, we made our way back downstairs to look at the kitchen, which had been updated at some point, but would still need a fairly big remodel. I was ready to tell Moretti and Joy that this was just too much of a project, when we went into the backyard.
That’s when I got it—the feeling I would live there.
The property, blanketed with snow, seemed magical and endless, stretching all the way back to the woods. It was quiet and peaceful. “The creek runs right through the trees back there,” said Joy. “It’s frozen now, but I bet in the spring, you could hear it.”
There was plenty of room for a beautiful deck or stone patio, maybe even a pool if I could ever afford it. I imagined ball games on the lawn in summer and building a whole family of snowmen in the winter. Maybe we could even put in an ice rink.
It would take a ton of work, lots of money, and all my spare time. But what else did I have to spend it on?
“Daddy, look!” Mariah pointed to the dilapidated doghouse over to one side. She turned to Joy. “Does a dog live in there?”
“Not anymore,” Joy said with a smile.
“But it comes with the house, right?”
Joy laughed. “Definitely.”
Mariah came over and slipped her hand into mine. “I like this one, Daddy. Can we live here please? Just you and me?”
“Maybe we can, peanut. We’ll see.”
* * *
After saying goodbye to Joy and telling her we’d be in touch, we took Mariah home. My mother said she had no plans to go anywhere, and she didn’t mind at all if I went out for a beer with Moretti. I promised to be back in time for dinner and headed back out.
“So what’s with you?” he asked, once we were seated at the bar of the Bulldog Pub, our favorite watering hole and the sponsor of our baseball team in the Allegan County Senior Men’s league.
“Nothing, really,” I lied, lifting my beer bottle and taking a long drink. “I’m just thinking about buying a house. It’s a big, expensive decision.”
“It is,” Moretti agreed. “And don’t worry if nothing you saw today was right. We’ve got more to see.”
“I actually really like that old one on the big lot by the creek. It would take some serious renovation though.”
“Nothing structural,” reasoned Moretti. “Unless you wanted to take out that dining room wall and have one big open kitchen-dining area. And even that wouldn’t be a monster project. The rest of the work would all be cosmetic, and if you need a designer, I know some people.”
I couldn’t resist. “Like Bianca DeRossi?”
He scowled. “I said people, not she-devils.”
“She didn’t seem that bad to me. And she’s cute.” I laughed. “Is she Italian? Maybe you should audition her for the role of Mrs. Enzo Moretti. I bet your parents would be happy.”
“Bite your fucking tongue, Mitchell. I wouldn’t ask her out if you paid me. Anyway, I’m off the market for now.”
“Oh yeah? Things are going well with Reina?”
He tipped up his beer, glancing over to where Reina was standing at the servers’ station. She gave him a little wave. “I guess. She’s got tomorrow night off, and I’m taking her to dinner. Want to join us?”
“No.”
“Why not? You could bring Cheyenne or something.”
I looked at him sharply. “Why Cheyenne?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. My cousin Lara told me yesterday that she waited on you guys at DiFiore’s a couple nights ago. I said you were just friends, but she thought there was definitely something going on with you two.”
My neck felt sweaty. I took another drink.
“Is there something going on with you two?”
I meant to say no. Instead I blurted, “I kissed her last night.”
Moretti nearly choked on his beer. “What?”
“I kissed her last night. After everyone else left and Mrs. Dempsey went up to bed.” Grimacing, I shook my head. “But I shouldn’t have.”
“Why the fuck not? Cheyenne’s hot.” He pointed a finger at me. “You can never tell Griff I said that, by the way.”
“Because I don’t want to lead her on. She wants a serious relationship, not a one-night stand.”
“Okay, but there’s a lot of middle ground between those two things,” Enzo argued. “Can’t you just date? Hang out and have some fun?”
“No, because dating someone comes with responsibilities. If you’re dating someone, you owe them things—time, attention, feelings. Cheyenne wants those things. She deserves those things.”
“What do you want?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. You told me what Cheyenne wants, but what about you?”
“I want something I can’t have,” I said. “I want to be the guy that isn’t worried about something bad happening before things even get good.”
Moretti clapped me on the shoulder. “Listen. You need to get back out there, buddy. All this pent-up frustration is clogging your brain. Want my advice?”
“No.”
“Here’s my advice.” He set his beer on the bar and talked with his hands. “If you want Cheyenne, go for it. From what I can see, she wants you too. As long as you don’t tell lies or make promises you can’t keep, I don’t see the harm in having a little fun. Do you?”
While I considered it, the bartender came over. His name was McIntyre, and he worked for Griffin at the garage in addition to playing for our baseball team. He’d picked up a few bartending shifts to help cover the costs of his wedding, which had just occurred over the summer. “Hey assholes,” he said, setting down two shots of whiskey. “These are on a woman at the end of the bar.”
“See?” Moretti elbowed me. “You’re putting out that hot single dad vibe already. Women can’t resist.”
McIntyre grinned. “Actually, she seems to think you two are a couple. She said to congratulate you on your wedded bliss and she hopes you’ll be very happy in the new house.”
I looked down at the end of the bar, and there was Bianca DeRossi, grinning sweetly and holding up her own shot.
“Fucking hell,” Enzo growled, his dark eyes stormy. “I quote George Clooney as Ulysses Everett McGill: ‘Woman is the most fiendish instrument of torture ever devised to bedevil the days of man.’”
“George might be right,” I said, thinking about the boots Cheyenne had worn yesterday. Talk about torture.
“If only they weren’t so fucking hot. It’s maddening, isn’t it?” Moretti was still looking at Bianca, his expression nothing if not bedeviled.
“Yep.” I picked up my shot and tossed it back.
Nine
Cheyenne
“I don’t understand it,” Blair said. “Nothing from him all week? Not even a text message?”
“Nothing.”
We were on the phone, me in my room packing my bags, and Blair already up at Cloverleigh Farms. It was Thursday afternoon, which meant a whole week had gone by since the Thanksgiving night kiss.
A kiss I’d been dreaming about since I was twelve years old. A kiss I’d never forget as long as I lived. A kiss I’d replayed in my head, over and over again, every single night since he’d walked out of the kitchen.
“I don’t understand it,” she said again.
“I do.” I added a stack of bras and underwear to my suitcase. “He told me flat out that we needed to slow down, that he felt like things were moving too fast.”
“Yeah, but there’s a difference between slowing down and slamming on the brakes. All you did was kiss!”
“Yeah, but that was a huge deal for us,” I said. “This isn’t like I just met someone random at a bar and he brought me home and kissed me. This is Cole.” I placed a pair of jeans a
nd two sweaters into the suitcase. “He’s not like anyone else. And he’s too good a guy to feed me bullshit. He doesn’t want to start something he can’t finish, and I don’t want to be that girl clinging to blind hope for the rest of my life. He was honest with me, and I respect that.”
“Maybe he was just really busy this week,” Blair said brightly. “I told you he put an offer in on that old house by the creek, right?”
“You did, and I’m excited for him. But he and I have talked about moving out a lot, so I kind of thought he might tell me about it himself.” I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and glared at it. “See? This is the problem with me. I say I’m not going to get my hopes up, and then I do. I say I’m okay with things, and then I’m not. I pick unavailable people, and then I wonder why I get disappointed.”
“Grr, it’s so maddening,” said Blair. “Any idiot could see the way he was staring at you at Thanksgiving.”
I went back to packing, purposefully tossing in some pajamas that were not sexy in the least. “Thanksgiving was a good time. But I think it scared him.”
She sighed. “Has your mom forgiven you for the plate?”
“Who knows? She says she’s not mad, but she’s been weird this week.”
“Weird like how?”
“I don’t know. Just quiet. But I feel like she’s looking at me and silently judging. Wondering what I did wrong with Cole. Why he doesn’t want me.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Or maybe that’s me projecting.”
“Has she asked about him?”
“No,” I admitted, tucking some socks into my suitcase. “Tell me again how dressy I need to be for the rehearsal dinner.”
“I thought you had an outfit planned already.”
“I did, but now I don’t know if I’m in the right mood for it.” I sank onto my bed and stared at the black dress hanging on the back of my closet door. “Maybe it’s too sexy.”
“It’s not.”
“I can’t wear a bra with it.”
“What are you, my grandma?”
“And it’s tight.”
“It shows off your fantastic body!”
Make Me Yours: The Bellamy Creek Series Page 11