Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,13

what my mother referred to as the craft cupboard. “Do you need fall colors?”

“Sure, if you’ve got them. This is what I want to make.” She tapped her phone screen and held it up. “And I already cut the turkey bodies out from cardboard delivery boxes before realizing I didn’t have anything to make the feathers with. I could probably go in early tomorrow morning and get the example done, but I’ll already have to go in early and cut out five feathers for each kid—which will be a hundred and thirty feathers.”

I moved closer, checking out the picture on her phone of cardboard turkeys with multicolored feathers that had words written on them like MOM, DAD, MY HAMSTER, SCHOOL, and COOKIES. “Cute. Are those things kids are thankful for?”

Cheyenne laughed. “Yes. I’ll have their fifth grade reading buddies help them with the writing. We’re hosting the buddies for a project, story, and snack right after the Thanksgiving Sing assembly.”

“Sounds like a busy day,” I said. I could smell her perfume—not bananas this time, but something floral, feminine and sweet. She was dressed in what looked like her work clothes, fitted navy pants, a navy blouse with flowers all over it, a soft pink cardigan sweater, and beige flats. The front of her hair was neatly pulled back, and her skin seemed luminous, her cheeks pink from the chilly night air. It made me want to warm her up.

“I found some!” Mariah came rushing over to the table with a stack of colored construction paper. “Will this work?”

“Absolutely,” Cheyenne said. “Thank you so much. See what we’re making?” She flashed the phone screen at Mariah, who gasped.

“I want to make one! I wish I was in fifth grade so I could have a kindergarten reading buddy.”

“Next year,” Cheyenne promised.

“Can I still make one with you tonight?” she asked hopefully.

“Sure.” Cheyenne looked at me. “Unless it’s bedtime?”

I checked the clock on the wall. “She’s got about half an hour—an hour if I’m nice.”

Laughing, Cheyenne glanced at the kitchen table. “Want to work here or at my house, Mariah?”

“Here,” Mariah said. “That way Daddy can make one too.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, ruffling her hair, “but I’ll sit with you guys.”

“Yay!” Mariah ran over to the table for four and pulled out the chair between mine and hers. “Miss Cheyenne, you can sit here.”

“Okay. But first I need to run back to my house and grab a couple things. I’ll be right back.”

While she was gone, I quickly snuck up to my room and checked my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. Shit—there was a faint yellow stain on the white T-shirt I’d thrown on after taking off my uniform. After swapping it for a nicer blue one—I remembered how she’d liked me in blue—I ran a brush over my hair and gave myself one squirt of cologne. At the last second, I decided to duck into the bathroom and brush my teeth, so by the time I got back downstairs, Cheyenne and Mariah were already seated at the table, tracing feather shapes onto the construction paper.

They both looked up at me as I walked into the kitchen.

“Did you change your clothes?” Mariah asked.

“Just my shirt,” I said, cursing my daughter for being so observant. “I spilled something on it.”

“When?”

“Earlier.” I went directly to the fridge and grabbed a Heineken. “Cheyenne, would you like a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

“How about a glass of wine?” I asked.

“Okay.”

“You like merlot?”

“I like it all,” she said with a laugh.

I opened a bottle and poured her a glass, bringing it to the table along with my beer. When I sat down, Mariah studied me carefully.

“Did you comb your hair?” she asked.

Self-conscious, I ran a hand over it. “No,” I lied.

“Oh.” She went back to tracing. A moment later, she picked up her head again and sniffed. “What’s that smell? Dad, are you wearing cologne?”

Stifling the urge to throttle my kid, I took a long swig from the Heineken bottle and changed the subject. “Maybe I will make one of those things. Got an extra turkey for me?”

“Of course.” Cheyenne picked up a cardboard turkey cutout and handed it to me.

I could have taken it from her without any skin-to-skin contact at all simply by grabbing the other end of it.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I reached over and covered her hand with mine—and I didn’t let go. Mariah’s head was bent over her work, so she didn’t notice, but Cheyenne stared at our hands, a blush creeping