Make Me Yours: The Bellamy Creek Series Page 3

  “Nah. Beckett was driving him.” He shut the closet door and turned to face me. “Thanks again for having Mariah over tonight.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I’m really grateful for the time you spend with her.” He glanced up the stairs. “She needs it, I think. Especially as she’s getting older. I’ll just say it right now—I’m dreading puberty.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll always be there for her. No matter where you live.”

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice deep and soft. He moved a little closer to me in the dark. “I appreciate you, Cheyenne. I hope you know that.”

  My lips fell open.

  “And listen,” he went on. “About earlier, in my room.”

  “Okay, I’m ready,” whispered Mariah from the top of the stairs, breaking the spell.

  Cole cleared his throat and stepped back.

  With my heart pounding like ocean waves in my chest, I went up the steps, gripping the banister for balance. What had he been about to say?

  At the top of the stairs, I followed Mariah to her room and watched her slip beneath a yellow comforter covered with daisies. Then I went and sat on the edge of the bed. Her bedside lamp was on, and I noticed the photo of Trisha next to her clock on the nightstand. It was a close-up of her smiling face, and she absolutely radiated happiness, the kind of glow you couldn’t get from mashed bananas.

  Mariah saw me looking at it. “That’s my mom,” she said.

  I smiled at the little girl. “I know.”

  “Were you friends with her?”

  I tilted my head this way and that. “Not really. She was three years ahead of me in school and had her own group of friends. But she was around a lot, because she hung out with your dad and Griffin. And she was always nice to me.”

  “Do you think I look like her?” she asked, glancing at the photo.

  “Yes. I do. And that’s a good thing because she was very beautiful. Even though looks are not the most important thing about a girl,” I added quickly, trying to navigate this rocky terrain on the fly. Every girl wanted to feel beautiful, right? So how did you assure her she was without making it seem too important? “Kindness is more important. And your mom had lots of that.”

  “I never got to meet her.”

  My heart ached. “Well, if you ever want to talk about her, I’m here. I miss my dad a lot, and sometimes it helps me to talk about him.”

  “Thanks.” She tucked a stuffed dog under her arm. It was raggedy, the fur all matted.

  I reached over to switch off the lamp, then brushed a hand over her forehead. “Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

  “Sweet dreams,” she echoed.

  I stood up and turned around, surprised to see Cole’s tall, broad silhouette in the doorway. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were there,” I whispered.

  “Just for a minute,” he said quietly, slipping past me. “Wait for me downstairs. I’ll walk you home.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I live right next door.”

  “I want to.” He touched my forearm. “Wait for me, okay?”

  “Okay.” My pulse raced a little as I went down the stairs, even though I knew his insistence on walking me home was probably more about his innate police officer protective streak than any romantic feelings for me.

  Even so, I went down the stairs and ducked into the first-floor lavatory. I checked my hair and teeth in the mirror, redid my ponytail, and frowned at my complexion, which did not seem any more glowy than it had yesterday. What a waste of three perfectly good bananas, I thought. I could have made banana bread in the morning.

  When I came out of the bathroom, Cole was descending the stairs, which creaked beneath his feet.

  “Ready?” He pulled the front door open.

  “Yes.”

  We descended the porch steps and walked side by side down the front path, and I made sure to stroll a little slower than necessary, wishing I lived several houses down and not right next door. Our breath made puffy clouds in the cold night air.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. “In my room. I shouldn’t have”—he glanced at me—“grabbed you like that.”

  “It’s okay.” I wanted to keep things light. “I suppose I was taking my role as your personal stylist a bit seriously.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe a bit.”

  “So did you have any fun tonight?”

  He shrugged as we turned onto the sidewalk between our houses. “Sure, I guess.”

  “That’s not very convincing.”

  “Bachelor parties aren’t really my thing.”

  “Did you have one when you got married?”

  “Probably. Is it bad that I don’t remember it?”

  I laughed. “It’s fine. Guys like you and Griffin, who actually want to be married, probably don’t even need bachelor parties. It seems like kind of an outdated tradition.”

  “I agree.” He glanced at me as we headed up my mother’s front walk. “Do you want to get married?”

  Oh my God, yes! my inner teenager shrieked. I thought you’d never ask!

  “Someday,” I said. “If I can find the right person. I’d really like to have kids.”

  “You should. You’d be a great mom.”

  “Thanks.” Even in the icy air, I felt heat in my cheeks. “Griffin and Blair are just so damn lucky that they found each other,” I said as we reached my mother’s porch steps. Then I turned to face him and blurted, “Don’t judge me, but sometimes I get really jealous of them.”

  He tucked his hands in his pockets.

  “It’s not that I resent them being happy,” I said quickly. “I’m thrilled for them. But sometimes it feels like love is just a numbers game, you know? Some people are lucky while other people aren’t. And I think I’m just destined to be one of the unlucky ones.”

  He studied me for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think that’s true.”

  “No?” A brisk wind rustled leaves at our feet. “Then how come I’m thirty years old and haven’t found it yet?”

  He looked toward the street. “I’m not saying it’s easy to find. And there are definitely a lot of idiot guys out there who can’t see what’s right in front of them—although most of them wouldn’t deserve you anyway.” His eyes met mine again. “But don’t give up . . . it’s worth waiting for.”

  A shiver moved through me, and I wrapped my arms around myself.

  “You’re cold. You should go in.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, thinking I’d stand out here under the stars all night talking to him like this, no matter what the temperature. “I wish you’d come in and say all that to my mother. She thinks I’m still single because I’m too picky or not making enough effort. Like my soul mate is right up there on the high shelf, but I’m not willing to use the ladder.”

  “Yeah, my mom gets on me about being single too. She thinks the reason I don’t want to get remarried is because I don’t want to move on from Trisha. But it’s not that at all.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And frankly, my friends can be just as bad, calling me a monk or constantly telling me I need to get out there again. But they don’t know what it’s like to be a single dad, raising a daughter who never even met her mom. Loving her enough for two parents. Making sure she’s safe and healthy and happy and doing well in school and has plenty of friends and gets enough attention and makes it to soccer practice on time—or Girl Scouts or ice skating lessons or her therapist—while also holding down a full-time job with twelve-hour shifts. And in addition to all that, constantly reassuring her that she’s never going to lose me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly, my heart breaking for him. “That must be—”

  “Do they think I don’t get lonely sometimes? Of course I do. Do they think I don’t miss sex? Of course I do. Do they think it’s easy to pretend I don’t need it or want it as much as they do? Because it isn’t.” His eyes were locked on mine, flashing with fire in the dark. “It fucking isn’t. But I’
m trying to do the right thing.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. His words had knocked the wind out of me.

  He put both hands over his face. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Cheyenne. You did not need to hear all that. I don’t know what’s with me tonight.”

  “Don’t apologize.” I managed a smile. “You’re only human, Officer Mitchell. You might look like a superhero—especially in uniform—but underneath it all, you’re a mere mortal like the rest of us. You can admit it. And you can always talk to me.”

  A small, crooked grin appeared, making him look like a teenager again. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Cole glanced behind him. “I should get back.”

  “Okay.” Impulsively, I moved forward and gave him a friendly hug, holding my breath as I rose on tiptoe and wrapped my arms around his neck.

  He seemed a little stunned at first, but then his arms came around me, and I let myself hold on for a few seconds and just breathe—inhaling the scent of his cologne and maybe just a hint of fabric softener or starch from his shirt underneath. Reluctant to let go, I wondered what was going through his mind as we stood chest to chest.

  “I smell banana,” he said, answering my question. “Is that your perfume?”

  Laughing, I let him go and rewrapped my cardigan around me. “No. There were mashed bananas in the face mask I had on earlier. It was supposed to make my skin glow. Did it work?”

  He chuckled. “I don’t know. But you look beautiful, just like always.”

  My cheeks warmed. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And thanks for walking me home.” I giggled self-consciously, fussing with my hair. “I feel like I’m thirteen years old, saying that.”

  He cocked his head. “Did I walk you home when you were thirteen?”

  “Only in my dreams.” Immediately I clapped both hands over my flaming cheeks. “Oh my God. Forget I said that.”

  He laughed. “Why?”

  “Because it’s embarrassing! You’re not supposed to know about my hopeless teenage crush on you.” Jiminy Cricket, Cheyenne! Shut up, shut up, shut up!

  “Well, I’m flattered. And I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

  “What secret was that?”

  “The one where I’m a mere mortal.”

  “Oh. Right.” I mimed locking up my lips and throwing away the key.

  Grinning, he took a few backward steps. “I’d have walked you home back then, if I’d known.”

  “Liar.” But I grinned back, my heart ready to explode.

  “‘Night, Cheyenne.”

  “‘Night.” I watched as he turned and headed across the lawn, then I climbed the porch steps and let myself in the front door.

  Upstairs, I put my pajamas on, washed my face, took my pill, and brushed my teeth before climbing beneath the covers in the same bed I’d slept in as a lovesick teenager, dreaming of the day the boy next door would finally look at me differently. Was it possible that day might still arrive?

  Yesterday, I’d have said no way.

  But tonight . . . tonight was making me wonder.

  Three

  Cole

  After locking up the house, I went upstairs, got ready for bed, and slid beneath the covers. I was tired, but I was restless too.

  Okay, hot and bothered.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Cheyenne. The way my body kept reacting to her. The things I’d told her. The undeniable temptation I’d felt to kiss her tonight—like three separate times.

  I hadn’t walked a girl home in fifteen fucking years. I’d almost forgotten how good it felt to be a little protective of someone. To stand there at her door and wish I could mess around with her, but be gentleman enough to keep my hands to myself.

  It hadn’t been easy.

  Cheyenne stirred something up in me, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Before I realized it, my hand had slid down inside my boxer briefs, my hard flesh slipping through my fist. I felt guilty about it, but I couldn’t resist. My cock was too hard and my muscles too tense, my blood too hot in my veins. I needed the release or I’d go crazy.

  And hadn’t I known I would do it tonight? Hadn’t I locked my bedroom door? Hadn’t I been sitting there tonight at the pub, thinking about Cheyenne’s ass in her tight jeans, that white lace clinging to her perfect round breasts, the way she’d felt beneath me for those few, incredible seconds?

  Stifling a groan, I worked myself harder and faster, imagining what it would be like to feel her lips on my mouth, on my chest, on my cock. To hear her murmur in appreciation as her hands swept over my shoulders and arms and abs. To see her skin shimmer in the dark as she writhed and arched beneath me. To hear the sharp gasps as I plunged inside her again and again, until our bodies reached the breaking point, and she cried out my name.

  A few seconds later, my hand and stomach were a mess. After I’d mopped myself up with some tissues, I pulled on some sweatpants and went down the hall to the bathroom. Already, the shame was settling in, and I avoided looking at myself in the mirror as I flushed the tissues and washed my hands, scrubbing them as if I could undo what I’d done—or better yet, unthink what I’d thought while I was doing it.

  Afterward, I went back to my room and got into bed again, pulling the covers to my waist. My body was more relaxed, but I still wasn’t sleepy enough to drift off. Instead, I lay with my hands behind my head, staring into the dark, trying to rationalize what I’d done.

  Maybe it wasn’t that bad. After all, I hadn’t really broken the promise. And she wasn’t just Griffin’s little sister anymore. She was my friend too. She was someone I’d known more than half my life, someone I trusted. She loved my daughter, and she went out of her way to show it. She listened to me. She understood me. She didn’t try to tell me what I should do.

  So no wonder, right? No wonder I was feeling something for her, something strong enough to cause a physical response. But it was over now. Out of my system.

  Next time I saw her, it would be like it had never happened at all.

  * * *

  The following day, I woke up early like I usually did. Griffin and I normally ran together on Sunday mornings, but I didn’t think he was going to be in any shape for it today, so I got out of bed, pulled on running clothes, laced up my shoes, and set off alone.

  The air was bracing—I could see my breath—and it took my muscles longer than usual to warm up. Generally, I was in good shape—I ran a few times a week, lifted weights, played baseball for the county men’s league in the summer and pickup hockey in the winter—but there were some mornings I felt my age creeping up on me.

  I picked up the pace a little, lengthening my strides.

  Maybe it was a mental thing. My mother wasn’t totally wrong about my feeling stuck—although she was wrong about how to fix it. I didn’t need a girlfriend to get out of this rut, I just needed a change of scenery.

  As I finished up the second mile, I thought more about moving out of my mother’s house. We’d needed my mom’s help after losing Trisha so tragically and suddenly, but my plan had never been to stay in my childhood home forever. I’d just sort of grown accustomed to the way things were . . . my mom getting Mariah ready for school because I had to be at work by seven a.m.; meals on the table when I got home twelve hours later; laundry done, folded, and left in a basket at my bedroom door; the house always clean.

  Not that I didn’t do my share—I did all the outdoor work, and because my mother was so fastidious, it involved constant mowing, edging, weeding, power-washing, bug-spraying, painting, and other repairs. I was also fairly handy inside the house and was usually able to fix anything that broke, and I took care of her car as well, bringing it to Griffin’s garage for service whenever it was necessary. Whenever I tried to give her money for rent or groceries, she always refused, telling me to put it toward Mariah’s college education fund instead. Once a month, Mariah and I took her out for dinner someplace nice as a gestu
re of thanks for taking such good care of us.

  But it was time for us to move on.

  I needed something to get excited about. A project. A place we could make our own. In the past, Mariah had sometimes struggled with change, but I’d involve her in the process every step of the way. She could have any room in the new house she wanted for her own. She could help me paint it. She could get the bunk beds she’d always wanted. I’d talk to the chief about my work schedule, see if there was any room for flexibility on my shift’s start time. We’d have fucking pancakes for dinner if we had to.

  And I could jerk off under my own damn roof.

  Mind made up, I cut the run short by looping back toward my mom’s after only three miles instead of the usual five, did some cursory stretches in the back yard, then headed inside to call Moretti. He was a builder, not a real estate agent, but he owned rental properties and often bought and flipped houses on the side. I figured he would have an inside scoop on the local market.

  Maybe we could even find something in the next couple weeks, and Mariah and I could move in before the holidays.

  We could start the new year in a new place. Get a new lease on life. A new beginning.

  I felt better already.

  * * *

  Moretti was hungry, so we met at the Bellamy Creek Diner for lunch.

  “How was the rest of the night?” I asked after we were seated in a booth at the back.

  “It was fine. I left not long after you did,” said Moretti, shrugging out of his jacket.

  “Alone?” I asked, but it was a joke. Enzo Moretti rarely left a bar alone on a Saturday night.

  “Actually, yes. I’m kind of into this girl, Reina—she’s a server there, but she had to work until two and then get up early for church.”

  “The dark-haired one?” I unzipped my Carhartt. “I saw you talking to her, but she didn’t look familiar. Is she new there?”

  “Yeah. I’d never met her until recently either, but apparently her grandmother and my grandmother are friends. They sort of set us up.”