Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,42

be the guy that isn’t worried about something bad happening before things even get good.”

Moretti clapped me on the shoulder. “Listen. You need to get back out there, buddy. All this pent-up frustration is clogging your brain. Want my advice?”

“No.”

“Here’s my advice.” He set his beer on the bar and talked with his hands. “If you want Cheyenne, go for it. From what I can see, she wants you too. As long as you don’t tell lies or make promises you can’t keep, I don’t see the harm in having a little fun. Do you?”

While I considered it, the bartender came over. His name was McIntyre, and he worked for Griffin at the garage in addition to playing for our baseball team. He’d picked up a few bartending shifts to help cover the costs of his wedding, which had just occurred over the summer. “Hey assholes,” he said, setting down two shots of whiskey. “These are on a woman at the end of the bar.”

“See?” Moretti elbowed me. “You’re putting out that hot single dad vibe already. Women can’t resist.”

McIntyre grinned. “Actually, she seems to think you two are a couple. She said to congratulate you on your wedded bliss and she hopes you’ll be very happy in the new house.”

I looked down at the end of the bar, and there was Bianca DeRossi, grinning sweetly and holding up her own shot.

“Fucking hell,” Enzo growled, his dark eyes stormy. “I quote George Clooney as Ulysses Everett McGill: ‘Woman is the most fiendish instrument of torture ever devised to bedevil the days of man.’”

“George might be right,” I said, thinking about the boots Cheyenne had worn yesterday. Talk about torture.

“If only they weren’t so fucking hot. It’s maddening, isn’t it?” Moretti was still looking at Bianca, his expression nothing if not bedeviled.

“Yep.” I picked up my shot and tossed it back.

Nine

Cheyenne

“I don’t understand it,” Blair said. “Nothing from him all week? Not even a text message?”

“Nothing.”

We were on the phone, me in my room packing my bags, and Blair already up at Cloverleigh Farms. It was Thursday afternoon, which meant a whole week had gone by since the Thanksgiving night kiss.

A kiss I’d been dreaming about since I was twelve years old. A kiss I’d never forget as long as I lived. A kiss I’d replayed in my head, over and over again, every single night since he’d walked out of the kitchen.

“I don’t understand it,” she said again.

“I do.” I added a stack of bras and underwear to my suitcase. “He told me flat out that we needed to slow down, that he felt like things were moving too fast.”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between slowing down and slamming on the brakes. All you did was kiss!”

“Yeah, but that was a huge deal for us,” I said. “This isn’t like I just met someone random at a bar and he brought me home and kissed me. This is Cole.” I placed a pair of jeans and two sweaters into the suitcase. “He’s not like anyone else. And he’s too good a guy to feed me bullshit. He doesn’t want to start something he can’t finish, and I don’t want to be that girl clinging to blind hope for the rest of my life. He was honest with me, and I respect that.”

“Maybe he was just really busy this week,” Blair said brightly. “I told you he put an offer in on that old house by the creek, right?”

“You did, and I’m excited for him. But he and I have talked about moving out a lot, so I kind of thought he might tell me about it himself.” I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and glared at it. “See? This is the problem with me. I say I’m not going to get my hopes up, and then I do. I say I’m okay with things, and then I’m not. I pick unavailable people, and then I wonder why I get disappointed.”

“Grr, it’s so maddening,” said Blair. “Any idiot could see the way he was staring at you at Thanksgiving.”

I went back to packing, purposefully tossing in some pajamas that were not sexy in the least. “Thanksgiving was a good time. But I think it scared him.”

She sighed. “Has your mom forgiven you for the plate?”

“Who knows? She says she’s not mad, but she’s been weird this week.”

“Weird like how?”

“I don’t know. Just quiet. But I feel like she’s looking at me and silently judging. Wondering what I did