Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,39
her hands fisted in my shirt, our bodies pressed together. It seemed unreal, like a dream. My eyes drifted shut, and next thing I knew, my head nodded and I jerked myself awake.
“Hey. Everything okay?”
The SUV was stopped at a red light, and Moretti was looking at me. I straightened up in the passenger seat and ran a hand over my hair. “Yeah.”
“You seem kind of out of it today.”
“I’m tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Why not?”
“A lot on my mind, I guess.”
The light turned green, and he focused on the road again. “How about a beer when we’re done?”
“I’m taking Mariah to the movies tonight, but we could go for a beer before dinner. Just have to drop Mariah off at home first and check with my mom.”
“Cool.” Then he squinted, his neck elongating as he pulled up in front of the house for sale and stared out the windshield at a car parked in front of it on the street. “What the . . .” He groaned, long and loud. “No fucking way.”
Mariah gasped in the back seat. “Uncle Enzo, you said a bad word.”
“Sorry, Mariah. It’s just that . . . what the hell is she doing here?”
“Who?” I looked at the charcoal gray Audi in front of us. The license plate read BDR.
“Bianca DeRossi.” Moretti’s tone was venomous.
“Who’s Bianca DeRossi?” Mariah wondered. “She has a fancy name.”
“She’s a real big pain in the”—he stopped himself and reconsidered—“culo.”
“What’s a culo?” Mariah asked.
“Never mind,” I said. “What’s your problem with her?”
Moretti glanced in the back seat. “I’m not sure I can say without using some salty language. Can I swear in Italian?”
“Just give me the highlights. The PG version please.”
Moretti grimaced. “Her family and mine are friends, and she was kind of close to my sister Eva, but she and I have never gotten along.”
“Did we go to school with her?” I asked, trying to recall a Bianca DeRossi.
“No, she went to St. Mary’s,” he said, naming a nearby all-girls Catholic school. “So I only saw her at church or when our families got together.”
“Why didn’t you get along?”
“Because she was an evil little redheaded snot who thought she was too good to talk to me. My parents made me take her to a dance at St. Mary’s once, and she didn’t speak to me the entire night. She brought a book with her, for God’s sake! And she read it the whole time!”
I laughed for the first time all day. “I think I remember that.”
“She also insulted my”—again, he glanced toward the back seat, then cleared his throat—“my manhood.”
“She’s familiar with it?”
“No! That’s the thing. Maybe we used to run around without clothes on or something when we were babies”—Mariah giggled at that—“but definitely not since. Yet she took it upon herself to disparage me in front of a whole group of friends at St. Mary’s—one of whom I later, uh, familiarized—and she told me what Bianca said.” He straightened up in the driver’s seat and held up one finger. “I’d also like to mention that the friend said Bianca was wrong.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed the door handle. “Good. So it’s all ancient history. Can we go in now?”
“No! It’s not ancient history. Because the evil, lying redheaded viper moved home from Chicago last year and has proceeded to outbid me on every house I’ve wanted to buy and flip since. She’s ruthless.”
“She’s a realtor?”
“She’s an interior designer, I think.” He smirked. “The only justice is that she’s still about the size of a ten-year-old girl. Her nickname was Tiny, although if I remember correctly, she hated it.”
“I think it’s cute,” said Mariah.
Moretti glared at her. “Well, she isn’t cute. She’s like a killer bee—small and mean. I bet her culo has a stinger in it.”
I shook my head and opened the door. “Come on.”
As we headed up the front walk, I took note of the house’s exterior. It was an old brick farmhouse with a wraparound porch on one side, empty of furniture for the winter and in desperate need of a paint job. But I immediately pictured it with a fresh coat of white and two rocking chairs, or maybe a glider swing, and an emerald lawn stretching out in front of it. It lifted my mood.
We climbed the porch steps, but before we could knock, the door was pulled open by a woman who was definitely not tall, fifty-something Joy Frankel. This woman was our age and short—five feet nothing—with wavy auburn