Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,22

and spaghetti.”

“Boom.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner right there.”

“I can also make meatballs,” I announced.

“Meatballs!” Cheyenne arched one brow. “I’m impressed.”

“Yes. Believe it or not, Mrs. Moretti taught me. But I was made to understand that if I ever gave the recipe to anyone else, she’d have to kill me.”

Her head fell back as she laughed, and I was distracted by her throat—its pale skin, the hollow at the base, the curve of her neck to her shoulder. Earlier, in my car on the ride to town, I’d caught the scent of her perfume, and imagined the way it would fill my head if I put my lips beneath her ear, or brushed them against her collarbone, or swept them along her jaw.

“Cole?”

Blinking, I snapped my attention back to her eyes. She was studying me with a curious look on her face. “What?”

“I asked if you were hoping to move before the holidays.”

“Oh.” I realized how hard I was gripping my beer and set it down. “Um, I’d love to be in a new house by the new year. But there’s a lot of things that would need to be in place for that to happen.”

She took another bite of her pasta and sighed. “I’m so jealous. I wish I could move out by the new year.”

“Your mom gave you a hard time today, huh?”

“And then some. Right in front of your daughter, who’s probably going to end up with a warped sense of self-esteem because if she listens to Darlene Dempsey, she’s going to think a woman can’t be happy without a man.”

“No wonder our moms are such good friends,” I said.

She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe they just really miss their husbands, you know? I sometimes have to remind myself that my parents were really happy together and I’m sure she wants the same for her kids. She probably can’t conceive of what her life would have been like without my dad.”

“I think you’re right about that.”

“And my mom cannot stop crowing about Griffin and Blair, how she was right about them all along, even when he was adamant that there was nothing going on with them and he was not interested in a relationship.”

“Yeah,” I said, recalling how stubbornly Griffin had insisted he was not going to fall for his soon-to-be wife. “He was a fucking idiot for a while, wasn’t he?”

“He was,” she agreed. “And I hope you remind everyone of that when you give the toast at their wedding reception.”

I groaned, picking up my beer again. It was my second one and just about gone, although I’d been trying to pace myself. “Don’t remind me about that. I’m dreading it.”

“Why?”

“Because public service is my thing, not public speaking.”

She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’ll be great. Just tell a cute but embarrassing story about when he was young, remind everyone how he swore up and down he was never going to get married, especially not to a Tennessee debutante who didn’t know a carburetor from a camshaft, and wish them well. Then ask us all to raise a glass and do the same.” She picked up her wine glass, which was nearly empty. “Cheers.”

I tapped my bottle against her glass. “Can you please give the toast?”

Smiling, she shook her head and finished her wine. “It’s all you, my friend. But you’ve got this. Just say the thing about love being worth the wait that you said to me the other night.”

I squinted at her. “What?”

“The other night when you walked me home, you said love isn’t easy to find, but it’s worth the wait.”

“I said that?”

She laughed. “Yes, you did.”

“Huh. That’s not bad.” I tossed back the rest of my Belgian ale and grinned. “I think I read that in a fortune cookie.”

“What?” She wadded up a cocktail napkin and threw it at me. “A fortune cookie! I totally took that to heart. Now you’re telling me it was some mass-produced, factory-generated BS?”

We were still laughing when the server appeared at the edge of our table and asked if we’d like another round.

“Not for me, I’m driving,” I said, although I wished I could have a third beer, or maybe a shot of whiskey—anything to numb her effects on me. “I’ll take a cup of coffee though.”

“Sounds good. And for you?” the server asked Cheyenne.

Cheyenne bit her lip. “I probably shouldn’t. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Oh, go ahead,” I said, nudging her foot beneath the table.