Make Me Yours: The Bellamy Creek Series Read online

  Make Me Yours

  The Bellamy Creek Series

  Melanie Harlow

  Copyright © 2020 by Melanie Harlow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Melissa Gaston

  My name might be on the side of this ship,

  but you are undoubtedly its captain.

  Thank you for all you do to get me where I want to go.

  I wanna eat pancakes for dinner

  I wanna get stuck in your head

  I wanna watch a T.V. show together and when we're under the weather we can watch it in bed

  So please save all your questions for the end and maybe I'll be brave enough by then

  Well, maybe I won't ever say what's in my head

  No, I won't have to say anything

  You'll say it instead

  Lizzie McAlpine

  Contents

  1. Cole

  2. Cheyenne

  3. Cole

  4. Cheyenne

  5. Cole

  6. Cheyenne

  7. Cole

  8. Cole

  9. Cheyenne

  10. Cheyenne

  11. Cole

  12. Cheyenne

  13. Cole

  14. Cheyenne

  15. Cole

  16. Cheyenne

  17. Cole

  18. Cole

  19. Cole

  20. Cheyenne

  21. Cole

  22. Cheyenne

  23. Cole

  24. Cheyenne

  25. Cole

  26. Cheyenne

  27. Cole

  28. Cheyenne

  29. Cheyenne

  30. Cole

  31. Cheyenne

  32. Cole

  33. Cheyenne

  34. Epilogue

  35. Pancakes for dinner

  36. Crispy Asian Brussels Sprouts

  37. Mashed potatoes with roasted garlic and leek

  38. Sweet Potato Mash with Chimichurri

  39. Carrot Cupcakes with Brown Butter Cream Cheese Icing

  Be a Harlot!

  Also by Melanie Harlow

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  Cole

  “Is that what you’re going to wear?” My nine-year-old daughter, Mariah, assessed me from my bedroom doorway, her nose wrinkled.

  I studied my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. “Yeah. What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s boring. I thought you were going to a party.”

  “It’s just my friends at the pub.” I frowned at the hunter green polo shirt I’d chosen because it was on the top of the pile in my drawer. Was that the problem? Or was it the khaki pants?

  Mariah entered the room and flopped onto my bed, chin propped in her hands. “But it’s a party, right? A bachelor party for Uncle Griffin?”

  “Yes.” Bachelor parties were not my favorite thing, but Griffin Dempsey and I had grown up next door to each other, and we’d been best friends since we were younger than Mariah. He was getting married in two weeks, and I was the best man—in other words, tonight was a must-show.

  “What’s a bachelor, anyway?” Mariah wondered.

  “It’s a guy who isn’t married.” I scratched my jaw. Maybe the belt was wrong. I unbuckled it, deciding to swap it for a darker brown leather.

  “Are you a bachelor?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re not married.”

  “I was.”

  “But you’re not divorced. Is there a name for what you are?”

  “A widower,” I told her, slipping a new belt through the loops.

  “That sounds like an old man.”

  “I am an old man.”

  “Daddy! You’re thirty-three. That’s not that old,” she said, letting me know with her tone that it was somewhat old.

  “Thanks. Is this any better?” Turning around, I held out my arms, showing off the new version of my party outfit.

  Mariah shook her head. “No. You’re still boring.”

  I gave her a dirty look.

  “What? You asked. I’m just being honest.” A cheeky grin appeared. “You look like the guy who came to measure for the new windows yesterday.”

  I groaned. “Come on, that guy had a huge pot belly.”

  “Or maybe the guy who sold Grandma her new car.”

  “Fred Yaldoo? He’s got a pot belly and he’s bald! That’s it.” I dove for her.

  She squealed and tried to scramble off the bed, but I managed to get her in my grip and tickle the spot behind her left ear that always made her giggle and squirm. “No! No! I’m sorry!” she shrieked. “I take it back! You’re the handsomest daddy in the world!”

  “Too late!”

  My mother appeared in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed. “What on earth is going on in here?”

  I gave Mariah a quick noogie before releasing her. “My daughter says I look like Fred Yaldoo.”

  Just to make sure she wasn’t on to something, I jumped up and checked my hairline in the mirror. Thankfully, it looked fine. I probably could have used a closer shave, but whatever. Griffin and the guys weren’t going to give a shit about my scruff.

  Mariah scooted off the bed and put five feet between us. “I did not say that! I just said that his outfit was boring.”

  My mother studied me critically from the doorway, one hand on her hip. “Is that what you’re wearing to the party?”

  I rolled my eyes, then leaned down and yanked my brown dress shoes from the closet. “Yes. And I’m leaving now, before my self-esteem gets any worse.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t kill you to dress up a little more,” my mother went on, taking it upon herself to enter my room and start straightening up the items on the top of my dresser.

  I sat on the bed and put the shoes on. “Mom, stop. You don’t have to clean my room. I’m not ten.”

  “You live in my house, you deal with my cleaning.” She gathered up stray coins and dropped them into a little painted clay bowl Mariah had made in art class last year. “You want to live in a mess, you get your own house.”

  Mariah and I exchanged a here we go again glance. My mother’s definition of a mess was not the same as a normal person’s. Crumbs, dust, and clutter were the enemy. Growing up, I rarely saw her without a broom, the vacuum, a rag and a spray bottle in hand. My older brother Greg and I had learned early on that you take your shoes off at the door, you wipe up your spills immediately, and you make your bed in the morning or else. We used to joke that she wore hand sanitizer like perfume. We’d wrap it up for her at Christmas.

  “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that,” I said, tying my shoes.

  “About getting our own house?” asked Mariah, surprise evident in her voice.

  “Yes.” I straightened up and looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction. “What do you think about that?”

  Mariah bit the tip of her thumb. “Where would it be?”

  “I don’t know. We’d have to look. Take your thumb out of your mouth.”

  She did as I asked. “Would we move far away?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Could I think about it?”

  “Of course.” I understood her hesitation—this was the only home she’d ever known. We’d moved in with my mother right after she was born, which was also the day we lost Trisha.

  “Don’t worry, Mariah, I’ll come over and clean it,” my mother said, using h
er apron to wipe off a framed photo of Trisha and me on our wedding day before replacing it at a slightly different angle on my dresser.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mom.”

  “Really?” She spun around to face me, arms folded. “Are you planning to hire a housekeeper? And while you’re at it, a personal chef and a babysitter?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s going to make your meals?”

  “I will.”

  “You can’t cook! And with your work schedule? You don’t even get home until seven o’clock. What’s Mariah going to do after school?”

  “I’ll figure it out, Mom.”

  “Would I have to stay alone?” Mariah’s voice trembled.

  “Of course not,” I assured her.

  “I can come over after school and make dinner for you, Mariah,” my mother said. “Or you can come here. Although it does seem sort of silly to move out if that’s going to be the case. I mean, really, Cole, if you’re not going to get remarried, what’s the point of—”

  “That’s enough, Mom.” Anxious to avoid the same old fight, especially in front of Mariah, I went over to my daughter and tugged one of her braids. “And what are you up to tonight?”

  Mariah beamed. “Miss Cheyenne said I could come over to her house for a mani-pedi and a movie.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Cheyenne was Griffin’s younger sister. She was a kindergarten teacher at Mariah’s elementary school and had moved back home with her mother next door about a year and a half ago. She was wonderful to Mariah—a sort of surrogate aunt and big sister combined.

  She was also gorgeous, with a body that wouldn’t quit, and lately she was on my mind all the time—and my thoughts weren’t always clean. I felt like an asshole about it, and I’d never act on the attraction, but frankly, a quiet evening in on the couch watching a movie with Cheyenne sounded a hell of a lot better than a loud night out at the pub.

  “Aunt Blair is coming too.” Mariah tilted her head. “You think it’s okay to call her that even though she hasn’t married Uncle Griffin yet?”

  “I think it’s fine. In fact, I bet she likes it.” I leaned a little closer to examine Mariah’s heart-shaped face, which resembled her mother’s more every year, although she had my blue eyes and light brown hair. “Did you have something chocolate for dessert tonight?”

  She licked her lips. “Moose Tracks ice cream.”

  “Well, you’ve got a Moose-stache, just like in that book you used to make me read every night. Go wash your face.”

  Giggling, she put her hands over her mouth. “Okay.”

  When she’d gone, I turned to my mom. “Listen, don’t scare her out of the idea of us moving out. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I feel like now’s the time. I don’t have all the details worked out yet, but I’m asking for your support.”

  She held up her hands. “Of course you have my support, darling. You’re always welcome here, but I understand wanting your own space. I think it’s a good thing. A healthy step in the right direction.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled, tucking her silvery bob behind her ears. “Now about that outfit . . .”

  “My clothes are not up for discussion,” I said, switching off the light and heading out of my room.

  “But it’s a party,” she said, hot on my heels. “How about a nice shirt and tie?”

  I started down the stairs. “I’m just meeting my friends at the pub, Mom. The same guys I’ve been hanging out with since grade school. They won’t care what I have on.”

  “But there will be other people there too. Maybe you could meet someone new.”

  And there it is, I thought. The real reason she cares what I’m wearing—the “right direction” she’d been referring to.

  My mother, like nearly everyone else in my life, seemed to be on some kind of endless quest to convince me to find a replacement wife. No matter how many times I told them I wasn’t interested in getting remarried, they never gave up.

  “I’m good being single, Mom,” I said, heading into the kitchen.

  “You say that, but—”

  “I say that because it’s true.” Double-checking for my wallet and phone in my pockets, I grabbed my keys off the counter. “I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m so unhappy on my own. I’m not.”

  “It’s not that we think you’re unhappy, sweetheart. We just think you’re, you know . . .” She groped for the right words.

  “Go ahead and say it.”

  “Stuck,” she blurted, twisting her hands together.

  I widened my stance, folding my arms across my chest. “That’s ridiculous,” I said.

  “Is it? You haven’t dated anyone seriously in nine years, Cole.”

  “Because I’m not interested in serious dating. That doesn’t mean I’m stuck.”

  “But you’re choosing to be lonely.”

  “I’m choosing to be a good, present father to my daughter.”

  “Plenty of single dads get remarried! Don’t you think Trisha would have wanted that for you?”

  I lowered my voice. “What matters is what Mariah wants—and doesn’t want. My getting remarried is something that scares her. She’s been very honest about that in the past.”

  “Mariah is a child. Yes, she worries about losing you, but she’d come around. You need to move on, Cole.”

  I took a deep breath, the way I always did whenever my mother or anyone else tried to tell me what Trisha would have wanted, what was best for our daughter, or what I needed to do. I didn’t have a bad temper, but I didn’t like being told how to run my life. I was a grown man, and I knew what I wanted.

  “Look,” I said. “I appreciate your concern, but you’re wrong—I have moved on, Mom. I’ve accepted that I’m single, I’ve accepted that I’m going to raise my daughter alone, and I’ve accepted that life doesn’t always go the way we plan. Now you need to accept it too.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not even giving yourself the chance to fall in love again.”

  “The truth is, Mom, that’s never going to happen.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because lightning never strikes the same place twice.”

  A knock at the back door made us both jump. Through the glass panes, I saw Cheyenne smile and wave.

  “Come on in, honey,” my mother called.

  Cheyenne pulled the door open and stepped inside the kitchen. A chilly breeze came with her, bringing with it the scent of dead leaves and burning wood, as if someone in the neighborhood had their fireplace going. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but it seemed like half of it had escaped in the wind and blown around her face.

  “Hey,” she said brightly. “I just came to see if Mariah wanted to run to the store with me and pick out some snacks for our girls’ night.”

  “Oh, she’d love that,” my mother said. “I’ll go get her.”

  When we were alone, Cheyenne turned to me and smiled. “How’s it going, Cole?”

  “Fine.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head and muttered, “My mother.”

  “Oh.” She held up her hands. “Believe me, I get it. Living with your mother when you’re over thirty is a special kind of torture.”

  “I’m moving out,” I announced, making the final decision right then and there.

  Her eyebrows rose. “Are you?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I feel like now’s the time.” I paused. “As long as Mariah is okay with it.”

  She nodded slowly, chewing on her full lower lip. “You think you’ll stay local?”

  “Yeah. Unless I put in for a transfer to a different police department or something, I have to. And I doubt Mariah would enjoy being yanked out of her school, taken away from the only friends she’s ever known, or away from family.”

  “Right.” She sighed. “I can’t wait to move out. But I promise
d myself I wouldn’t until I paid off all my student loans and credit card debt.”

  “That’s smart. How long will it take you?”

  She shrugged, her fuzzy, peach-colored cardigan slipping off one shoulder. Beneath it she wore a white lacy thing that looked like a bra and a shirt combined. It sent a tiny jolt of electricity to my crotch, and I immediately averted my eyes. “Originally I thought it would take me two years,” she went on, “but I’m super motivated, so maybe just a few more months.” Then she laughed. “I love my mother, but she drives me crazy.”

  “Same.”

  “If she would just mind her own business, I’d be fine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Like, I get it, she had life all figured out by the time she was my age—the husband, the house, the kids—but some of us are still working on it. Anyway.” She shook her head and smiled at me. “So, you heading over to the Bulldog for Griff’s party?”

  “Yes.” I looked down at my clothes. “Although both my mother and my daughter have made it clear that I’m not dressed for the occasion. You think I look okay?”

  “Definitely.” She hesitated. “If the occasion was a PGA tournament.”

  I groaned. “Mariah said I looked like Fred Yaldoo.”

  Cheyenne laughed, her eyes lighting up. “From the car dealership?”

  “Yeah. Is she right?”

  Rather than answer, she put her fingers over her mouth and tried unsuccessfully to stop giggling. “I better not answer that.”

  “Goddammit, fine. I’ll change. But what am I supposed to put on?”