Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,40

hair that barely skimmed her shoulders and bright blue eyes behind glasses with thick black frames.

“Oh, hello,” she said, smiling at me and then Mariah. Then her eyes fell on Moretti, and recognition flickered. “Enzo. What a surprise.”

“Bianca,” he said stiffly. “In the market for a new house?”

“Oh, you know,” she said airily, tugging on black leather gloves. “I’m always on the lookout for an investment opportunity. What about you?”

“We’re looking for a house.”

“How nice.” She smiled wider, her eyes moving back and forth between Moretti and me. She held out her gloved hand. “I’m an old family friend, Bianca DeRossi.”

“Cole Mitchell,” I said, shaking her hand. “And this is my daughter, Mariah.”

Bianca smiled at her. “What a beautiful name.”

“I like yours too,” Mariah said shyly.

“My mother never mentioned that you got married,” Bianca said to Moretti. “Congratulations.”

Moretti scowled. “We’re not married.”

She patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, Enzo. Love is love. You don’t have to be ashamed.”

“I’m not ashamed!” he yelled at her back as she headed down off the porch. “And I’m not in love with Cole!”

Bianca turned around and walked backward for a few steps, a huge smile on her face. “Really, you’re a gorgeous couple. You should come by the house sometime. My parents would love to meet your new family. Best wishes to you both!”

“Go to hell!”

She winked at me. “Nice to meet you, Cole. Congrats on tying the knot—Enzo here is quite a catch. Just ask him.”

I couldn’t help laughing as she walked to her car, but Moretti was seething. “See what I mean?”

“Oh, relax. She was kidding,” I said, wondering if I’d just met the one woman on earth who was immune to Enzo Moretti’s smoldering good looks and charismatic charm.

Joy Frankel appeared in the doorway. “Hello,” she said. “Have you been waiting long? I’m so sorry—I was on the phone. Chuckie just called asking about lunch. I swear, the man is fifty-seven years old and still doesn’t know how to make himself a sandwich. Please come in.”

We entered the front hall, and she held out her hand to me. “Cole, right? Or should I call you Officer Mitchell?”

“Cole is fine,” I said, shaking her hand.

“Enzo Moretti. We spoke on the phone.” Moretti held out his hand. “Cole and I are just friends,” he added quickly.

“How nice.” Joy shook Moretti’s hand and turned to Mariah. “And who’s this young lady?”

“This is my daughter, Mariah,” I said. “We’re the ones looking at the house.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “Let’s have a look around.”

Straight ahead was a staircase; to the left, the living room. It was empty of furniture, and the floor was carpeted in a matted, ugly brown. But there was something about the room I liked—maybe it was the high ceilings or the original wood paneling. Maybe it was the fireplace or the arched entryway into the dining room. This house had character. I could feel it.

“Sorry about the carpet,” Joy said. “But I promise, beneath it is a gorgeous original wood floor just dying to be polished. You can see it if you pull back the carpet a little. Go on, take a look.”

Moretti wandered over to the corner of the room as Joy handed me a spec sheet. “It’s four bedrooms, two full baths upstairs,” she said. “But there’s plenty of room to expand on the first level. You could build a fabulous master suite.”

“Cole. Take a look at this.”

I walked over to where Moretti had peeled back the musty old carpet to reveal the original wood floor. “Oh. Wow.”

“This floor will refinish like a dream,” Moretti said with confidence.

“I agree,” said Joy. “The same floor is in the dining room, but at some point it was covered with linoleum.”

Moretti groaned. “What is wrong with people?”

Joy laughed. “Wait ’til you see the wallpaper in the bedrooms.”

Joy was right—the wallpaper in the bedrooms was ridiculous, and the upstairs carpeting was in the same sad shape as the downstairs. But the rooms were spacious, with high ceilings, big windows, and fairly big closets for an old house.

The master bedroom had a fireplace and its own bathroom, and there was a second full bath off the second-floor hallway. Both baths had black-and-white tiled floors, white tiles halfway up the walls, pedestal sinks, and clawfoot tubs. It was a bit like stepping into a time machine.

“As you can see, the bathrooms need a bit of updating,” Joy said sheepishly.

“No, I like this tub,” said Mariah, climbing into it.

Eventually, we made our way back downstairs to look at the