Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,102
“They are.”
“Any news on the move?”
“He’s moving after the first, I told you.” I carefully applied the poppy-red color to my lips.
“I meant your move—when do you move in?”
“Trying to get rid of me?” I rubbed my lips together and puckered up before capping the tube.
“Of course not, dear. You know I love having you here. I was only curious.” Suddenly she rose to her feet. “Anyway, I’m glad to hear things are going so well. Are you ready to go?”
“One minute,” I said. “I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?”
“Sure.”
As soon as she was out the door, I grabbed my phone and called Blair.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” I said quietly. “I’m so sorry to bug you on Christmas Eve, but I have to ask your advice about something.”
“Of course. Go ahead. We’re not at the table yet. It’s still cocktail hour down here.” She laughed. “The Beauforts do not skimp on their cocktail hour.”
“How’s it going down there?” I asked, feeling guilty I hadn’t led with that.
“Great! My folks adore Griffin, my grandmother is completely smitten, and he’s been talking classic cars with my uncle all night.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Okay, I’m hiding in the bathroom now. Tell me what’s up.”
Quickly, I ran through the conversation I’d just had with my mom. “So now I don’t know what to do! Do I ask him about the nightmares? Wait for him to tell me? I don’t want to make things weird for him and his mom. But why hasn’t he told me?”
“Hmm, this is a tough one.” Blair was silent for a moment.
From downstairs, I heard my mother calling me. “Shit,” I whispered. “I have to go. Tell me what to do, fast.”
“I’d ask him,” she said. “If it were me, I’d ask him.”
“What if he denies it?”
“Then I’d come clean about the conversation with your mom.” She paused. “But maybe not on Christmas Eve. I’d wait.”
“Okay.” I felt slightly better. “Thanks. I know you think I’m nuts for worrying all the time, but this isn’t just me being paranoid.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said. “I think you have to ask. If you guys can’t be honest with each other about these kinds of deeply personal things, it’s not going to work.”
“Cheyenne Dempsey!” my mother howled. “Do not make me climb these stairs again! I’m leaving without you!”
“Coming!” I yelled. To Blair I said, “Okay, gotta go. Thanks again. Merry Christmas. Give my brother a hug for me.”
“I will. Merry Christmas,” she said. “Love you, let me know how it goes.”
With one more glance in the mirror—I tried to replace my tense expression with a more party-appropriate one—I grabbed my purse and hurried out of my room.
The Mitchells’ Christmas Eve Open House was a tradition in our neighborhood. It started early, and almost every family stopped in before heading to their family dinners and parties. The house was already full of revelers when my mother and I arrived.
After placing the gifts I’d brought beneath the tree, I found Cole pouring drinks at the makeshift bar in the dining room. The moment I saw him, my stomach flipped like a pancake. He was so handsome in his French blue shirt with the sleeves cuffed up, his charcoal gray dress pants, and shiny dress shoes. His scruff was trimmed back, his hair was neatly combed, and he smelled like he had our first night together.
“Hey there,” I said, approaching the bar with a grin. “Don’t tell my boyfriend, but you’re the cutest bartender I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you see what’s right above our heads?”
I looked up. “Mistletoe. How convenient.”
“I know. Come here.” He leaned forward over the bar and I did too, our lips meeting in the middle.
“Eww,” said a high-pitched voice. “That’s gross.”
We looked to see Mariah standing to one side of the bar with a few neighborhood friends. “I know, and they do it all the time,” Mariah said, rolling her eyes.
“Beat it,” Cole said, jerking his thumb. “No kids allowed in my bar.”
The kids scampered off, and I turned back to Cole, studying him more closely. “How are you?”
“Good.” He smiled, but I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor beneath his normally golden complexion. “How are you?”
“Good. Want to pour me some wine?”
“Of course. Red or white?”
“Red, please.”
He opened a bottle and poured me a glass, handing it over the bar. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” I took a sip as a few dads from the neighborhood approached the bar, wanting to clap Cole on the back for the rescue earlier in the week