Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,111

I do. You said losing someone you love hurts like hell. But there wasn’t one day with Trisha you’d take back, even knowing how it ended.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “Now I remember.”

“You still feel that way?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“So then why are you throwing away all the days you could have with Cheyenne, even if you knew exactly when the world was going to end?”

“But if I knew, I’d be prepared,” I snapped, angry that he was poking so close to the bone. “That’s the point.”

Griffin exhaled. “Okay. Last thing for real, and it’s not even a question. During that same conversation we had back then, you said that given how long we’d been friends, you’d expect me to tell you if you were fucking something up in a big way.”

I grimaced, knowing what was coming.

“And so, Cole, I say to you, as you did to me, you’re fucking something up in a big way. You also told me I was being a real asshole about it, but I’m going to be the bigger man and not call you names.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly.

At that point, we were interrupted by a few people who’d seen the news story about the baby, and I had to shake some hands and pose for a picture. When we were alone again, Griffin chuckled. “Guess this town really needed a hero.”

“I’m not a fucking hero,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I was doing my job.”

“You saved a life either way, jackass. And maybe that little girl is going to grow up and cure cancer. Or be President. Or save the whales. You never know what good things can happen, Cole. But you have to believe they can.”

I frowned, although I fucking loved the idea of that tiny baby growing up to do great things. Nothing made me happier than imagining the good Mariah was going to do. I loved being a father. Watching my daughter grow up was the greatest gift that life had ever given me.

Suddenly I pictured her perfect-day collage, which was still hanging on my mother’s refrigerator. It was obvious from the photos she’d chosen what mattered to her—family, tradition, love. Those things mattered to her because I’d raised her that way—they mattered to me too.

I thought about my perfect day—it was summertime, and I was on the pitcher’s mound at the ball field, and Griff was over on first base, Moretti was at second, and Beckett was behind the plate. The Mavs were down, and I had a no-hitter going. I looked over to my right, and there was Mariah, playing by the fence with her friends, and in the stands, there was Cheyenne. She was holding a baby on her hip and pointing at me with a smile on her face, and I knew she was saying, That’s your daddy right there.

It was so real I could feel the sun on my skin, smell the dirt and the sweat, feel the love in my heart.

I wanted it—and it wasn’t going to happen at the bottom of this rut.

Could I claw my way out? But how?

Cheyenne had said I had to fight—but when the enemy was something buried deep within you, how could you face it down?

“You think she would talk to me?” I asked Griffin.

“Now I’m going to call you an asshole. Of course she would. She loves you.” He pointed at me. “And even though I told you jerks never to touch my sister, I’m going to let this go.”

Finally, I managed to laugh. “Sorry about that.”

“You should be.” He finished his beer. “I will say this, though. Do not mess with her. She’s always been a pain-in-the-ass little punk sister, but she’s my pain-in-the-ass little punk sister. And no matter what she says, she still needs her big brother to look out for her.”

I nodded. “I hear you.”

“Good.” He clapped me on the back. “She’ll be at our place for New Year’s Eve. Show your face. Say nice things. Don’t be a dick.”

As if it were that simple.

But I would try.

Thirty-One

Cheyenne

I checked my phone for the hundredth time, agonized to see it had only been ten minutes since I’d last looked.

“Will you stop?” Blair said, taking a tray of spring rolls from the oven. “It’s not even nine yet, and already I can tell you want to go home. You’ve got hours until midnight.”

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“Into what?” she asked, grabbing her kitchen tongs to transfer the rolls to a platter. “Leaving