Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,18

girl who’d actually text him that. But since I wasn’t that brave, I deleted the words and typed something else.

Me: Mariah okay?

Cole: Sound asleep. I should get to bed too.

Me: Same here. Goodnight.

Cole: Night.

With a smile lingering on my face, I set my alarm, replaced my phone on the charger, and snuggled beneath the covers. I imagined him doing the same thing, and I liked that I was the last person he’d spoken to—even if it was only via text message—before falling asleep.

Was it as good as being next to him? Hell no. But I was thinking about him, and maybe he was thinking about me, and tonight, there had been something different about the way he’d looked at me.

It was enough for now.

Also . . . Yes. I slept with his coat.

Don’t judge.

The following day was a half-day at school, and I spent the rest of the afternoon making pie crust dough and helping my mom prepare for Thanksgiving. We dusted the furniture, put the leaf in the dining table, and dragged the Christmas tree from the attic along with boxes of lights and decorations. While my mother strung the lights, I hung the ornaments, laughing at the ones Griffin and I had made by hand during grade school.

We sliced Brussels sprouts, prepared the mashed potatoes, and made cranberry sauce. Since my mother’s house only had one oven, tomorrow I’d get up early and bake two pies—one pumpkin, one lemon meringue—before we had to put the turkey in. The mashed potatoes could be done on the stove, Mrs. Mitchell had offered her oven for the casserole and was also bringing hot appetizers, and Blair was bringing dinner rolls, a cheese plate, and her famous apple pie.

Finally, we set the table for seven with my parents’ wedding china and late grandmother’s silver, which only made appearances at Christmas and Thanksgiving. We decided to set a place at each end of the table, then have three people on one side, and two on the other.

“Well, I guess that’s everything for today,” my mother said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the table with a critical eye. “Unless you think we should swap out the ivory tablecloth for the burgundy.”

“No, I like the ivory.” I smoothed a ripple in the pristine damask as someone knocked loudly on the front door.

My mother and I exchanged quizzical glances. “Are you expecting someone?” she asked as she went to answer it.

“No,” I said, wondering if it was Cole coming to ask for his coat back. I’d been planning to return it this evening, but I wanted to change my clothes and clean up a little first. I’d put on sweats after work, and I was covered in dust and silver polish.

“Well, hi there!” I heard my mother exclaim. “Come on in, Mariah. What do you think of all this snow?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I went to say hello.

“I like it,” Mariah said, stomping her boots before stepping into the front hall.

“Hey, Mariah,” I called.

“Hi, Miss Cheyenne.” She beamed at me and held up a brown paper bag. “I made place cards for tomorrow. Want to see them?”

“Of course I do! Take your boots off and come put them on the table.”

“How thoughtful of you,” my mother said, shutting the door behind Mariah as the girl tugged off her boots. “Can I take your coat?”

“Yes, thanks.” Mariah unzipped her jacket and handed it to my mother, then scooped up the paper bag again.

“The kids loved your turkey,” I told her, leading the way into the dining room. “Thanks again for making it.”

“You’re welcome. I used the idea to make these.” She stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out seven miniature versions of the turkeys we’d made last night, each of them with three colorful feathers and labeled with a name.

“Oh, they’re so cute!” I exclaimed, picking up the one that said Miss Cheyenne in a fourth grader’s round, swirly cursive. “I love them! Mom, look what Mariah made.”

My mother came in and praised Mariah’s work. “Adorable! Would you like to set them out?”

“Sure,” Mariah said happily. “Mrs. Dempsey, you should sit here, because it’s the head of the table,” she went on, setting my mother’s place card at one end.

“And also the closest to the kitchen, which definitely helps me,” my mother said.

“I’ll sit here,” Mariah said, placing her turkey on the side of the table with the three settings. “Can I sit by you, Miss Cheyenne?”

“Of course.” I set my turkey

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