Call Me Crazy (Bellamy Creek #3) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,9
business deal, not an engagement.”
“That’s exactly what it is. We’re clear on the mission, but we’re going to clarify our vision, define our purpose, discuss the timeline.”
“Oh my God.” Ellie’s expression was agonized as she placed her hands over her heart. “Romance is really dead, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want romance, Ellie,” I said, growing frustrated. “Look, I tried for romance. I was with Tate for five solid years before I realized he was never going to marry me—I wasted five years of my life believing his lies and letting him push aside all the serious conversations I tried to have about the future. And now there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to get just one of those years back. What if it’s too late for me?”
“I’m sorry, B,” Ellie said, a little softer. “I know how hurt you were after Tate. If you’re determined to do this thing, I support you.”
“I’m more than determined, Ellie. I want to have a baby, and I’m done waiting for it. Why shouldn’t I get to experience being a mom just because I haven’t found real love? I was willing to use an anonymous donor, but thankfully, I don’t have to. My child can actually know its father.”
“And Enzo is up for that?” she asked. “Raising a child with you?”
“He said he was.” I hesitated, then admitted what I was afraid of. “But he was also drunk. Tonight, I want to have a completely sober conversation about this.”
“Good idea.” She peeked at me sideways. “What will you do if he says no?”
I took a deep breath, let it out, and increased my speed to a run. “I’ll move on. That’s the beauty of this, Ellie. I’m not giving Enzo Moretti my heart to break.”
She thought for a moment. “So are you actually going to do it with him?”
“No! I’ll still have an artificial insemination. He’ll just provide the sperm.”
She giggled. “Too bad. Seems like if you’re going to marry a guy as hot as Enzo Moretti, you should at least get a couple perks out of it, like seeing him naked.”
“I don’t want to see him naked,” I said. But then I had to turn the speed of my treadmill down.
I was having trouble breathing, and my heart was racing a little too fast.
Enzo knocked on my door that night just after six.
I lived in a ground-floor condo right on the harbor, which I loved, although it was small—just 900 square feet—and I never did get around to buying a boat to put in the slip that came along with the lease. But it was the perfect size for one person, with an open-concept kitchen and living room, two bedrooms, a bath and a half. And since I hadn’t planned on having a roommate when I moved back to Bellamy Creek—let alone a spouse—it had seemed like a good buy at the time.
I wondered where Enzo lived. Would I have to give up my condo and move in with him? Where would I go when I left? As I went to answer his knock, I realized there were a lot of pieces to this puzzle we’d have to make fit.
Pulling open the door, I ignored the little ka-whump I always experienced in my chest at the sight of him. Probably every woman who laid eyes on him felt that ka-whump. “Hey,” I said. “Come on in.”
He stepped into the entryway, and I shut the door against the late February chill. “This is for you,” he said, handing me a bottle of Nebbiolo. “It’s one of my favorites, but don’t let me have any. My head still hurts from last night.”
“Thank you.” I went over and placed it on the kitchen island, which also functioned as my dining table and was already set for two. “Can I take your coat?”
He shrugged out of a black wool double-breasted coat. Beneath it he had on dark jeans and a black cashmere sweater over a white-collared shirt. His clothes fit him as if they’d been custom tailored, but then, he had a body that just looked good in fitted clothing—lean and muscular but not bulky, with just the right amount of brawn to his chest. His hands, I’d noticed at the table last night, were surprisingly elegant for someone who worked with them, with long, graceful fingers, a neat manicure, and thick, masculine wrists. The kind of hands you could imagine aggressively pounding a hammer or ripping out drywall but also gliding smoothly over your bare skin.