Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,8
night air.
“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. “In my room. I shouldn’t have”—he glanced at me—“grabbed you like that.”
“It’s okay.” I wanted to keep things light. “I suppose I was taking my role as your personal stylist a bit seriously.”
He chuckled. “Maybe a bit.”
“So did you have any fun tonight?”
He shrugged as we turned onto the sidewalk between our houses. “Sure, I guess.”
“That’s not very convincing.”
“Bachelor parties aren’t really my thing.”
“Did you have one when you got married?”
“Probably. Is it bad that I don’t remember it?”
I laughed. “It’s fine. Guys like you and Griffin, who actually want to be married, probably don’t even need bachelor parties. It seems like kind of an outdated tradition.”
“I agree.” He glanced at me as we headed up my mother’s front walk. “Do you want to get married?”
Oh my God, yes! my inner teenager shrieked. I thought you’d never ask!
“Someday,” I said. “If I can find the right person. I’d really like to have kids.”
“You should. You’d be a great mom.”
“Thanks.” Even in the icy air, I felt heat in my cheeks. “Griffin and Blair are just so damn lucky that they found each other,” I said as we reached my mother’s porch steps. Then I turned to face him and blurted, “Don’t judge me, but sometimes I get really jealous of them.”
He tucked his hands in his pockets.
“It’s not that I resent them being happy,” I said quickly. “I’m thrilled for them. But sometimes it feels like love is just a numbers game, you know? Some people are lucky while other people aren’t. And I think I’m just destined to be one of the unlucky ones.”
He studied me for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think that’s true.”
“No?” A brisk wind rustled leaves at our feet. “Then how come I’m thirty years old and haven’t found it yet?”
He looked toward the street. “I’m not saying it’s easy to find. And there are definitely a lot of idiot guys out there who can’t see what’s right in front of them—although most of them wouldn’t deserve you anyway.” His eyes met mine again. “But don’t give up . . . it’s worth waiting for.”
A shiver moved through me, and I wrapped my arms around myself.
“You’re cold. You should go in.”
“I’m fine,” I said, thinking I’d stand out here under the stars all night talking to him like this, no matter what the temperature. “I wish you’d come in and say all that to my mother. She thinks I’m still single because I’m too picky or not making enough effort. Like my soul mate is right up there on the high shelf, but I’m not willing to use the ladder.”
“Yeah, my mom gets on me about being single too. She thinks the reason I don’t want to get remarried is because I don’t want to move on from Trisha. But it’s not that at all.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And frankly, my friends can be just as bad, calling me a monk or constantly telling me I need to get out there again. But they don’t know what it’s like to be a single dad, raising a daughter who never even met her mom. Loving her enough for two parents. Making sure she’s safe and healthy and happy and doing well in school and has plenty of friends and gets enough attention and makes it to soccer practice on time—or Girl Scouts or ice skating lessons or her therapist—while also holding down a full-time job with twelve-hour shifts. And in addition to all that, constantly reassuring her that she’s never going to lose me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly, my heart breaking for him. “That must be—”
“Do they think I don’t get lonely sometimes? Of course I do. Do they think I don’t miss sex? Of course I do. Do they think it’s easy to pretend I don’t need it or want it as much as they do? Because it isn’t.” His eyes were locked on mine, flashing with fire in the dark. “It fucking isn’t. But I’m trying to do the right thing.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. His words had knocked the wind out of me.
He put both hands over his face. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Cheyenne. You did not need to hear all that. I don’t know what’s with me tonight.”
“Don’t apologize.” I managed a smile. “You’re only human, Officer Mitchell. You might look like a superhero—especially in uniform—but underneath it all, you’re a mere mortal like