Chapter 1 Cole #2
I took a deep breath, the way I always did whenever my mother or anyone else tried to tell me what Trisha would have wanted, what was best for our daughter, or what I needed to do.
I didn’t have a bad temper, but I didn’t like being told how to run my life.
I was a grown man, and I knew what I wanted.
“Look,” I said. “I appreciate your concern, but you’re wrong—I have moved on, Mom. I’ve accepted that I’m single, I’ve accepted that I’m going to raise my daughter alone, and I’ve accepted that life doesn’t always go the way we plan. Now you need to accept it too.”
She shook her head. “You’re not even giving yourself the chance to fall in love again.”
“The truth is, Mom, that’s never going to happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because lightning never strikes the same place twice.”
A knock at the back door made us both jump. Through the glass panes, I saw Cheyenne smile and wave.
“Come on in, honey,” my mother called.
Cheyenne pulled the door open and stepped inside the kitchen.
A chilly breeze came with her, bringing with it the scent of dead leaves and burning wood, as if someone in the neighborhood had their fireplace going.
Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but it seemed like half of it had escaped in the wind and blown around her face.
“Hey,” she said brightly. “I just came to see if Mariah wanted to run to the store with me and pick out some snacks for our girls’ night.”
“Oh, she’d love that,” my mother said. “I’ll go get her.”
When we were alone, Cheyenne turned to me and smiled. “How’s it going, Cole?”
“Fine.”
“What’s wrong?”
I shook my head and muttered, “My mother.”
“Oh.” She held up her hands. “Believe me, I get it. Living with your mother when you’re over thirty is a special kind of torture.”
“I’m moving out,” I announced, making the final decision right then and there.
Her eyebrows rose. “Are you?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I feel like now’s the time.” I paused. “As long as Mariah is okay with it.”
She nodded slowly, chewing on her full lower lip. “You think you’ll stay local?”
“Yeah. Unless I put in for a transfer to a different police department or something, I have to. And I doubt Mariah would enjoy being yanked out of her school, taken away from the only friends she’s ever known, or away from family.”
“Right.” She sighed. “I can’t wait to move out. But I promised myself I wouldn’t until I paid off all my student loans and credit card debt.”
“That’s smart. How long will it take you?”
She shrugged, her fuzzy, peach-colored cardigan slipping off one shoulder.
Beneath it she wore a white lacy thing that looked like a bra and a shirt combined.
It sent a tiny jolt of electricity to my crotch, and I immediately averted my eyes.
“Originally I thought it would take me two years,” she went on, “but I’m super motivated, so maybe just a few more months.
” Then she laughed. “I love my mother, but she drives me crazy.”
“Same.”
“If she would just mind her own business, I’d be fine.”
“Exactly.”
“Like, I get it, she had life all figured out by the time she was my age—the husband, the house, the kids—but some of us are still working on it. Anyway.” She shook her head and smiled at me. “So, you heading over to the Bulldog for Griff’s party?”
“Yes.” I looked down at my clothes. “Although both my mother and my daughter have made it clear that I’m not dressed for the occasion. You think I look okay?”
“Definitely.” She hesitated. “If the occasion was a PGA tournament.”
I groaned. “Mariah said I looked like Fred Yaldoo.”
Cheyenne laughed, her eyes lighting up. “From the car dealership?”
“Yeah. Is she right?”
Rather than answer, she put her fingers over her mouth and tried unsuccessfully to stop giggling. “I better not answer that.”
“Goddammit, fine. I’ll change. But what am I supposed to put on?”
“A different shirt? Like a dress shirt or something? And maybe not the khakis.”
“Dress pants?”
“Maybe. Or dark jeans. Depends on the shirt you pick.”
“This makes me glad I wear a uniform every day.” I checked the time on my phone. “Shit. I’m running late already. Can you just come up and pick something out of my closet?”
She laughed again. “Sure. If you trust me.”
“I trust you.” Setting my keys on the counter again, I led the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs, wondering belatedly if this was wise, bringing Cheyenne up to my bedroom. I’d had a hard enough time keeping my thoughts appropriate in the kitchen.
Moving down the upstairs hall, we passed Mariah’s room—which had been my brother Greg’s back in the day—where my mother was trying to convince her to put on a different shirt, one without an ice cream stain on it.
Pushing my door all the way open, I snapped on the overhead light and gestured toward the closet. “Dress shirts hanging in there, along with good pants. Jeans in the dresser, second drawer down.” Then I dropped onto the bed, leaning back on my hands. “Good luck. Fashion is really not my thing.”
She stood at the door for a moment, almost like she was afraid to come in. Her eyes darted around—from the closet to the dresser to the walls to the bed. “I’ve never been up here before. It’s so clean.”
“House rules.”
Entering the room with a few tentative steps, she sniffed. “It even smells good. Griffin’s room always smelled horrible.”
I laughed. “Mine probably smelled just as bad as a teenager. My mother was always in here fumigating it.”
Grinning, she went over to the closet and riffled through my shirts, the plastic hangers making noise as she slid them along the wooden bar. “How about this one?”
I glanced over and saw her holding up a button-up dress shirt in a navy and royal blue checkered pattern. “Okay.”
“The colors will match your eyes.” She shut the closet door and handed me the shirt, still on the hanger. “You have such great eyes.”
I looked up at her, and a compliment stuck in my throat—I like your eyes too.
They were big and brown, with little flecks of gold in them, framed by thick black lashes.
And she had a way of looking at you that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.
But all I said as I took the shirt was, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She gave me a tiny smile before she turned toward my dresser and pulled open the second drawer. “Jeans would be best with that. Your darkest denim.”
“I think I have some dark denim in there.”
Bending over, she sorted through a stack of jeans.
I watched her, letting my eyes wander over her curves.
As I had in the kitchen, I felt a rush of arousal.
But this time, I didn’t look away. Instead I found myself wondering what she’d do if I reached out and put my hands on her hips.
Pulled her onto my lap. Buried my face in her neck.
Put my hands beneath her sweater. Cheyenne had the kind of body you could spend hours exploring—you could get lost and never want to be found.
Before I could stop it, the thickening surge in my pants grew into a full-blown erection, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand up without an obvious bulge in my khakis. Sometimes—but only sometimes—being well-endowed was not an asset.
“Here we go. These are perfect.” Cheyenne straightened up and tossed a folded pair of jeans on the bed.
“Thanks,” I said, leaning forward so my elbows rested on my knees, shielding my crotch.
She eyed my feet. “The shoes are good. Do you have a dark brown leather belt?”
“I’m wearing it.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
Slightly taken aback, she tried again. “I’m sure it’s fine. I just want to see it and make sure.”
“Well, you can’t.”
She rolled her eyes. “Cole, come on.”
“No.”
“You’re being silly. Why can’t I see the belt?” Laughing, she grabbed my arm and tried to pull me onto my feet, but I yanked it back so hard, I jerked her right off her feet.
“Oh!” she cried as her body crashed into mine, the force of it sending me over backward.
She wound up sprawled on top of me, and instinct took over—I flipped her onto her back and pinned her wrists to the mattress, my cock bulging against her thigh.
There was no way to hide what she was doing to me.
Our eyes met. “Oh,” she said again, softer this time.
I almost lost my mind and fucking kissed her.
Instead, I jumped off the bed and backed up against my dresser. “So. How’s the belt?”
She sat up, and her eyes went wide. “Um, it’s big.”
I nearly grinned. “It’s what?”
Then she panicked, her cheeks turning scarlet. “I mean, it’s perfect. The belt. The belt is perfect. For your outfit.” She scrambled off the bed and bolted for the first door she saw, yanking it open. “I’ll just get Mariah and head out.”
But it was the closet door she’d gone for, which she realized when she tried to exit through a row of hanging shirts.
“Other way,” I said, pointing her toward the hallway.
“Right,” she said, making a beeline out of the room without looking at me. “Okay, have a good night. Bye.”
When she was gone, I shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, running a hand over my jaw and trying not to laugh.
Fuck. No more inviting Cheyenne Dempsey up to my room.
Years ago, clear back in high school, Griffin had made his three best friends—me, Enzo Moretti, and Beckett Weaver—promise we’d keep our hands off his little sister. He’d probably forgotten all about it, but I hadn’t. And I’d always been a man of my word, but damn.
Damn.
As I changed my clothes with the irresistible scent of Cheyenne’s perfume lingering in the air, and the memory of what her body had felt like beneath mine, I couldn’t help wondering if there was a statute of limitations on a promise like that.
I mean . . . those eyes. Those curves. Those lips.
Just . . . damn.