Make Me Yours: The Bellamy Creek Series Page 2

  “A different shirt? Like a dress shirt or something? And maybe not the khakis.”

  “Dress pants?”

  “Maybe. Or dark jeans. Depends on the shirt you pick.”

  “This makes me glad I wear a uniform every day.” I checked the time on my phone. “Shit. I’m running late already. Can you just come up and pick something out of my closet?”

  She laughed again. “Sure. If you trust me.”

  “I trust you.” Setting my keys on the counter again, I led the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs, wondering belatedly if this was wise, bringing Cheyenne up to my bedroom. I’d had a hard enough time keeping my thoughts appropriate in the kitchen.

  Moving down the upstairs hall, we passed Mariah’s room—which had been my brother Greg’s back in the day—where my mother was trying to convince her to put on a different shirt, one without an ice cream stain on it.

  Pushing my door all the way open, I snapped on the overhead light and gestured toward the closet. “Dress shirts hanging in there, along with good pants. Jeans in the dresser, second drawer down.” Then I dropped onto the bed, leaning back on my hands. “Good luck. Fashion is really not my thing.”

  She stood at the door for a moment, almost like she was afraid to come in. Her eyes darted around—from the closet to the dresser to the walls to the bed. “I’ve never been up here before. It’s so clean.”

  “House rules.”

  Entering the room with a few tentative steps, she sniffed. “It even smells good. Griffin’s room always smelled horrible.”

  I laughed. “Mine probably smelled just as bad as a teenager. My mother was always in here fumigating it.”

  Grinning, she went over to the closet and riffled through my shirts, the plastic hangers making noise as she slid them along the wooden bar. “How about this one?”

  I glanced over and saw her holding up a button-up dress shirt in a navy and royal blue checkered pattern. “Okay.”

  “The colors will match your eyes.” She shut the closet door and handed me the shirt, still on the hanger. “You have such great eyes.”

  I looked up at her, and a compliment stuck in my throat—I like your eyes too. They were big and brown, with little flecks of gold in them, framed by thick black lashes. And she had a way of looking at you that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. But all I said as I took the shirt was, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” She gave me a tiny smile before she turned toward my dresser and pulled open the second drawer. “Jeans would be best with that. Your darkest denim.”

  “I think I have some dark denim in there.”

  Bending over, she sorted through a stack of jeans. I watched her, letting my eyes wander over her curves. As I had in the kitchen, I felt a rush of arousal. But this time, I didn’t look away. Instead I found myself wondering what she’d do if I reached out and put my hands on her hips. Pulled her onto my lap. Buried my face in her neck. Put my hands beneath her sweater. Cheyenne had the kind of body you could spend hours exploring—you could get lost and never want to be found.

  Before I could stop it, the thickening surge in my pants grew into a full-blown erection, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand up without an obvious bulge in my khakis. Sometimes—but only sometimes—being well-endowed was not an asset.

  “Here we go. These are perfect.” Cheyenne straightened up and tossed a folded pair of jeans on the bed.

  “Thanks,” I said, leaning forward so my elbows rested on my knees, shielding my crotch.

  She eyed my feet. “The shoes are good. Do you have a dark brown leather belt?”

  “I’m wearing it.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “No.”

  Slightly taken aback, she tried again. “I’m sure it’s fine. I just want to see it and make sure.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Cole, come on.”

  “No.”

  “You’re being silly. Why can’t I see the belt?” Laughing, she grabbed my arm and tried to pull me onto my feet, but I yanked it back so hard, I jerked her right off her feet.

  “Oh!” she cried as her body crashed into mine, the force of it sending me over backward. She wound up sprawled on top of me, and instinct took over—I flipped her onto her back and pinned her wrists to the mattress, my cock bulging against her thigh. There was no way to hide what she was doing to me.

  Our eyes met. “Oh,” she said again, softer this time.

  I almost lost my mind and fucking kissed her.

  Instead, I jumped off the bed and backed up against my dresser. “So. How’s the belt?”

  She sat up, and her eyes went wide. “Um, it’s big.”

  I nearly grinned. “It’s what?”

  Then she panicked, her cheeks turning scarlet. “I mean, it’s perfect. The belt. The belt is perfect. For your outfit.” She scrambled off the bed and bolted for the first door she saw, yanking it open. “I’ll just get Mariah and head out.”

  But it was the closet door she’d gone for, which she realized when she tried to exit through a row of hanging shirts.

  “Other way,” I said, pointing her toward the hallway.

  “Right,” she said, making a beeline out of the room without looking at me. “Okay, have a good night. Bye.”

  When she was gone, I shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, running a hand over my jaw and trying not to laugh.

  Fuck. No more inviting Cheyenne Dempsey up to my room.

  Years ago, clear back in high school, Griffin had made his three best friends—me, Enzo Moretti, and Beckett Weaver—promise we’d keep our hands off his little sister. He’d probably forgotten all about it, but I hadn’t. And I’d always been a man of my word, but damn.

  Damn.

  As I changed my clothes with the irresistible scent of Cheyenne’s perfume lingering in the air, and the memory of what her body had felt like beneath mine, I couldn’t help wondering if there was a statute of limitations on a promise like that.

  I mean . . . those eyes. Those curves. Those lips.

  Just . . . damn.

  Two

  Cheyenne

  “I’m positive,” I whispered frantically to Blair in the kitchen. “I felt it. Then I looked right at it. I said, ‘Um, it’s big.’ Then I tried to escape through his closet.” Cringing, I shook my head. “It was so embarrassing!”

  “I’m sure he was more embarrassed than you were.” Blair giggled as she dumped a big bag of barbecue chips into a bowl. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing!” I poured two glasses of Pinot Grigio and plunked a few ice cubes into a tumbler for Mariah, who was waiting for us in the den. “What on earth could he say?”

  “What did you do to turn him on?”

  “I have no idea.” I pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and poured some into the tumbler. “Chose his outfit? Complimented his eyes? Bent over in front of him?”

  Blair munched on a chip. “Those jeans do look amazing on you.”

  “You think?” I glanced at my behind, which was where I felt like I carried every single one of the ten pounds I was always trying to lose.

  Okay, fifteen.

  “Definitely,” she said.

  I took out a second bowl and dumped a bag of Skinny Pop in it. “I was still getting over my shock that he invited me up to his room in the first place. It was like my greatest fantasy coming to life. Except that there was a wedding picture of him and Trisha on the dresser.”

  Blair looked surprised. “Still?”

  I ate some popcorn. “Did I ever tell you, the night they got married, I cried myself to sleep?”

  “Aww, really?”

  “Yep. I’d been away at college for a year already. I’d finally lost my virginity to some dormitory asshole who vaguely resembled Cole but—it turned out—had none of his kindness or integrity. But anyway, I was nineteen and thought I was over Cole Mitchell once and for all. Then I saw him standing at the front
of the church in a black suit, tears in his eyes, watching Trisha walk toward him, and it hit me—I’d never be over him. And he’d never be mine. I stayed as long as I could at the reception, then I came home and bawled my eyes out.”

  “You’re killing me.” Blair ate another chip. “How many guys have you dated because they reminded you of Cole?”

  “Ugh. Too many.” I shoved more popcorn in my mouth. “And they always turned out to be jerks.”

  “Maybe you should date, like, the opposite of him.”

  “I’ve done that too,” I said. “Believe me, I’ve put myself out there. I’ve dated plenty of guys. A couple times I even thought I was in love. But deep down, my heart was always secretly, stubbornly loyal to Cole. I keep waiting to feel that way about someone else. Because . . . shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t the guy I’m with be the one who gives me butterflies and makes my heart pound? If not, what’s the point?”

  She sighed. “I guess you’re right. I wish he’d open his eyes and see how great you guys could be together.”

  “Ha. Do you know how many times I’ve made that wish? On every first star in the sky, every birthday candle I’ve ever blown out, every coin I’ve ever thrown in a fountain.” I ate another handful of popcorn. “But it’s no use. I feel like there’s this . . . Trisha-shaped hole in his life, and I’ll never fit into it.” I glanced at my behind again. “I think my butt’s too big.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t know for sure.” She sipped her wine. “It’s been eight years since Trisha died, right?”

  “Nine. She had severe hemorrhaging after a placental abruption while delivering Mariah.” I spoke quietly so the little girl wouldn’t hear me.

  “God, that’s so sad.” Blair picked up her wine glass and took a sip. “But nine years is a pretty long time. Think he’s been celibate all those years?”

  “No idea. But this is such a small town, and he’s so well-known, being a police officer and all, I feel like there would be rumors if he was sleeping around. I’ve never heard a thing. I think he’s too gentlemanly.”

  “Well, we know he’s still capable,” Blair said with a grin. “At least judging by the bulge in his khakis.”

  Groaning, I squeezed my eyes shut. “Stop. You know, for a moment, I actually thought he was going to kiss me.”

  “Maybe he was. He’s obviously attracted to you, Cheyenne.”

  “I don’t know,” I said dubiously. “I mean, why would he want me? He could have anyone.”

  Blair crunched loudly on a chip. “Not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  We took the snacks and drinks into the den, where we’d already set up the facial mask and mani-pedi stations, and cued up Grease, which I’d gotten permission to show Mariah. While the opening credits played, we covered our faces with a DIY mask made from banana, orange juice and honey. While singing along to “Summer Loving,” I painted Mariah’s toes. While she returned the favor by polishing the fingernails on my right hand, I sipped wine and commiserated with Sandy as she crooned “Hopelessly Devoted to You.” When “Hand Jive” came on, Blair and I both jumped up and danced along.

  “Jeez, how many times have you guys seen this?” asked Mariah incredulously.

  “A lot,” I said, laughing and out of breath. “It’s addictive. You’ll see.”

  By the end of the movie, the snacks were gone, the wine bottle was empty, and Mariah was yawning.

  “I’ll walk you home in a minute, okay?” I told her. “See if you can find your flip-flops. They might be under the couch.”

  “Okay.”

  Blair gave her a hug. “See you soon, sweetie.”

  I walked Blair to the front door. “Thanks for coming over.”

  “Of course! Thank you for hosting my wild and crazy bachelorette night.” Laughing, she dug her keys from her purse. “Think the guys are still at the pub?”

  “Probably. It’s only eleven.”

  Blair rolled her eyes. “I know, but those four are like a bunch of old ladies. They talk a big game, but their guys’ nights usually wrap up long before midnight.”

  I laughed. “Are Moretti and Beckett bringing dates to the wedding?” In addition to Cole, those were Griffin’s other two closest friends and groomsmen.

  “Not that I know of. And if they are, they better tell me, because the wedding is only two weeks away and I have to finalize the seating chart.” She shrugged. “But it’s kind of hard, you know? Unless you’re already dating someone, you can’t really bring them to an out-of-town wedding, especially if you’re in the wedding party.”

  “Right.” Griffin and Blair were getting married up at Cloverleigh Farms, which was about three hours north of Bellamy Creek.

  “But there will be some single girls there. Maybe one of them will find their soul mate.” She poked my shoulder. “Or maybe you will.”

  I sighed. “I’d settle for someone to dance with.”

  “Someone with broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and a nice big dick?”

  “Shhhh!” I glanced behind me, worried Mariah might have wandered out of the den.

  “You’ll get that dance, because you’re the maid of honor and he’s the best man. Wedding party dance.”

  “That’s not the same as being asked to dance, Blair.”

  “So ask him.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you can, Chey. One of these days you’re just going to have to be brave and tell him how you feel. Either that or pine for him the rest of your life.”

  “At least I’d keep my dignity.”

  “Maybe, but your dignity isn’t going to keep you warm at night, is it?” Rising up on her toes, she gave me a hug. “I’ll see you Thursday, but I’m sure we’ll talk before then.”

  “Okay.” Thursday was Thanksgiving, and my mom and I were hosting dinner at our house. It would be small—just Griffin and Blair, Cole and Mariah and Mrs. Mitchell, my mom and me—but I was looking forward to the long weekend and cooking a big, traditional meal. I loved to cook. “‘Night. Drive safe.”

  “‘Night.”

  I watched Blair hurry through the chilly dark and jump behind the wheel of her car, then gave her a wave as she pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. She and Griffin were so lucky they’d found each other. They had such a great story—stubbornly single mechanic falls for beautiful woman stranded in his small town. It was straight out of a movie.

  And I felt lucky too, that she and I got along so well. Neither of us had a sister—I only had one brother and Blair was an only child—so it was fun to finally experience that kind of close relationship. I’d been moved to tears when she’d asked me to be her maid of honor.

  After her taillights disappeared, I returned to the den, where Mariah had found her flip-flops and was zipping up her hoodie. “Ready to go?” I asked.

  “Yes. That was so fun,” she said, looking at her bright blue toenails. “Can we do it again sometime?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And watch Grease again too?”

  I grinned, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. “You know it. Grease and I go together like rama-lama-lama, ka-dinga-da-dinga-dong.”

  She laughed as we went out the front door. “Who’s your favorite character?”

  “Hmm. I’ll say Sandy. I identify with her.” I looked at her as we cut across the lawn in the dark. “How about you?”

  “I liked Frenchy. Think my dad would let me dye my hair pink?”

  “Um, no.”

  Mrs. Mitchell had said she would leave the back door open, so Mariah and I were walking up the driveway when headlights flashed at us from behind. We quickly scooted out of the way and up onto the back porch.

  “Your dad’s home,” I said, watching him pull into the garage at the back of the yard. “Want to wait for him?”

  “Sure.” She turned around and caught me breathing into
my palm to check my breath. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly, smiling as Cole approached, the garage door closing behind him.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” Butterflies took flight inside my belly, remembering the way he’d flipped me beneath him and pinned me down. “You’re home early.”

  He nodded, slowly climbing the porch steps. “Did you guys have fun?”

  “Yes,” Mariah said. “Look at my toes, aren’t they cute?” She held up one foot.

  “Blue, huh?” He chuckled and shook his head, as if girls were a mystery to him.

  “Can I dye my hair pink?”

  “No. What do you say to Miss Cheyenne?”

  Mariah wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “Thank you, Miss Cheyenne.”

  I embraced her. “You’re welcome, honey. We’ll do it again soon, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Cole pushed the door open, nudging Mariah inside. “Go on up and brush your teeth. I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in.”

  “Can Miss Cheyenne tuck me in tonight, Dad?” Mariah asked.

  “Not tonight, peanut. It’s late.”

  “Please?” she wheedled, clasping her hands beneath her chin.

  “I don’t mind,” I said.

  Cole looked at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay.” He looked at his daughter. “But no wasting time. Get up there, get your pajamas on and teeth brushed, and get in bed. And be extra quiet, so you don’t wake Grandma.”

  “Okay,” she said, hurrying into the house.

  Cole held the door open for me, and I stepped inside the kitchen, my heart beating overtime. Only the light over the stove was on, leaving the room shadowy and intimate. The hum of the refrigerator seemed loud.

  “How was the party?” I asked quietly.

  He closed the door behind us. “It was okay. Mostly I played darts with Beckett while Moretti flirted with a waitress and Griffin kept telling people to stop buying him shots.”

  “I hope he wasn’t driving himself home.” I followed Cole to the front of the house, where he took off his coat and hung it in the hall closet.