Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,88
great big bed with a fluffy down comforter, and put a cozy rug beneath it. Over by the fireplace, I’d put another rug and maybe a couple chairs. And over there . . .” I pointed to the big window overlooking the yard. “I’d put in a window seat with lots of pillows.”
“A window seat, huh?”
“Yes. And that’s where I will sit with my mug of tea and a romance novel, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with a scented candle lit beside me.”
He wrapped his arms around me from behind. “You expect me to build a window seat so you can come here and read a book? That’s not what I had in mind.”
I laughed, placing my hands on his forearms. “I didn’t say a window seat would be more enticing than you by the fireplace or you in that great big bed. But one of my dreams is to have a quiet place to read where I’m surrounded by books and natural light.”
“Oh.” He exhaled. “Then I guess I have to build it for you.”
Turning in his embrace to face him, I slipped my arms around his waist and smiled up at him. “You don’t have to build anything for me. You’re the best dream I’ve ever had, and you’re already right here.”
“But I like doing things for you. And I feel like I wasted so much time trying not to fall for you, I want to make up for it.”
“We’re not in a rush, Cole. This is the real thing, remember? It’s not going anywhere. And no one can take it from us.”
For a fleeting second, a shadow crossed his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He pulled me close, tucking my head beneath his chin, and we stayed that way for a moment. And then from below, we heard Mariah shrieking with laughter.
“Moretti always makes her laugh,” said Cole. “She loves him.”
“What female doesn’t?” I joked.
“Actually, believe it or not, I recently met a woman from his past who seems to be immune to his charms.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. She’s an interior designer. Bianca DeRossi.”
Gasping, I tipped my head back and looked up at him. “I know her! She’s in my book club. So she’s the one woman who can resist him, huh?”
“She’s the one.”
“I’ll have to ask her why sometime.” Then I sighed. “I guess we better go back downstairs, huh?”
“I guess.”
Hand in hand, we left the master bedroom. When we passed the other bedrooms on our way to the steps, Cole pointed to one and said, “Should we check on the baby?”
I laughed. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A sister, of course. No brothers allowed.”
“Do you think she’ll like pancakes for dinner?”
“I mean, who wouldn’t?”
At the bottom of the stairs, he turned to face me. Everyone else was in the kitchen, but he still spoke quietly. “You know, a year ago—hell, a month ago—if anyone had asked me if I saw myself having more kids, I’d have said no fucking way.”
I held my breath. “And now?”
He hesitated, almost like he wasn’t quite sure how to put it. “Now there’s you.”
My throat tightened. “Now there’s us.”
“Yes. Now there’s us.”
I shook my head. “I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. It’s like suddenly finding yourself at the all-you-can-eat buffet of your wildest dreams.”
Laughing, he squeezed my hand. “I want to make all your dreams come true. If I can.”
My eyes misted over. “You know what? Today was a pretty good start.”
Twenty-Three
Cole
The day after I took Cheyenne through the house, I called Moretti and asked if he had Bianca DeRossi’s contact information.
“Why do you need it?”
“Because she’s an interior designer and I have some questions about the interior of the house.”
“Ask me. I have good taste.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just give me her number please.”
“I don’t have it.” Heavy sigh. “But I could probably get it.”
“Thanks.”
“Or you could just try 1-800-HELLCAT. I bet she’d answer.”
“Could you just get the number please?”
“Fine,” he muttered. “Are you off work again today? What are you up to?”
“Yeah. I’m just getting shit done, ordering some furniture. I want to hit the paint store for some samples later—”
“Don’t buy anything yet. I get a discount.”
“Want to meet me there?”
“What time?”
I checked my watch. “Can you go now? I have to be over at the school before three-thirty.”
“Why? Doesn’t Mariah take the bus home?”
“It’s not for Mariah. It’s for Cheyenne. It’s been snowing all day and I want to scrape off her car. She mentioned yesterday how much she hates doing that in her work clothes.”