Chapter 5
FIVE
cole
For a moment, I stood on the back porch watching her walk away. It struck me then what I’d done—I’d asked her on a date.
Part of me wanted to call out to her, tell her to forget it, apologize for suggesting we go out tonight and explain that I couldn’t go through with it because I didn’t really date.
Another part of me thought that was ridiculous.
This didn’t have to be a date. It could be two friends going to grab a bite to eat and a beer. Totally casual.
Not that such a thing was possible in this town.
If I so much as chatted with a woman at the deli counter at noon, by five o’clock the rumor would be circulating that I was about to propose.
Bellamy Creek was a wonderful place, full of old-fashioned traditions and good-hearted people, but the only thing those people loved more than helping their neighbors was spreading rumors about them.
And one of those people was washing dishes at the kitchen sink as I entered the kitchen.
“How was your day?” asked my mother.
“Good.” I took my boots off at the back door as my brother and I had been trained to do our whole lives, so we wouldn’t track snow through the kitchen.
“I made beef barley soup for dinner. Can I get you a bowl?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to go grab a bite in town if that’s okay.”
“Of course, dear. With the boys?” She still referred to my friends as the boys even though we were thirty-three years old.
I cleared my throat. “No, with Cheyenne, actually.”
“Oh.” A pause as she digested this. “She was just here.”
“I know. I saw her outside.” I made my way across the kitchen quickly, hoping to get out of the room without having to discuss it further.
No such luck.
“So is this a date?” she asked.
“Nope, it’s just dinner. She’s been so great with Mariah lately,” I added. “I thought I’d treat her to say thanks.”
“Oh. Well, that’s nice of you.”
I could hear from her tone of voice that she thought there was more to it, but I left the kitchen before she could prod any further.
Before heading upstairs, I poked my head into the living room, where Mariah was watching television. “Hey, you.”
She looked up at me and smiled. “Hi, Daddy.”
“How was school?”
“Good. Did you hear back from Uncle Enzo? Can we go see the new houses?”
“Yep. We have three appointments on Friday.”
Her face lit up. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Are we seeing the one with the doghouse?”
“We sure are.”
“Yay! I’m excited,” she said.
“Me too.” I started up the stairs, then paused. “Hey, is it okay with you if I go out for a little bit tonight?”
“Sure. Where are you going?”
“Just to get something to eat with Miss Cheyenne.”
“Can I come too?” she asked hopefully.
“Not this time, kiddo.”
“Why not?”
I felt guilty trying to come up with a reason. “We just need a little grown-up time.”
“Oh. Okay.” Her disappointment was obvious.
“But we still have our movie date Friday night, don’t we?”
She brightened again. “Yes. Hey, maybe we can invite Miss Cheyenne to come to the movies with us!”
“Maybe,” I said, continuing up the stairs, careful not to commit. People would really start to talk if they saw the three of us at the movies.
Upstairs, I shut the door and took off my uniform, deciding at the last minute to quickly shower and shave.
Back in my room, I pulled some jeans from my drawer, put on a clean T-shirt and underwear, and considered the dress shirts hanging in my closet.
Deciding it would be too obvious to choose something blue again, I chose a black button-up this time, taking a moment to roll up the sleeves.
I traded my work watch for a nicer one, ran a comb through my hair, and gave in to the temptation to wear a little cologne.
I was replacing the bottle on my dresser when the framed wedding photo caught my eye.
I picked it up and looked at it closely, which I hadn’t done in months. Maybe even years. At this point, it was almost just part of the furniture.
What struck me first was how young I looked.
No furrow between my brows. No crinkle lines at the corners of my eyes.
Nothing but joy and optimism in my expression.
We were only twenty-two when we’d gotten married.
People had tried to tell us to wait, to break up and date other people, to put off making a lifelong commitment until we were older and wiser.
Our marriage wouldn’t last, they said. We were too immature.
We’d laughed and insisted we knew better.
After all, we’d been together for six years, and we’d never broken up once.
We’d never cheated on each other. We’d never been with anybody else.
Promising to love, honor, and cherish her forever had been easy for me.
Of course, things hadn’t gone the way I’d thought, and I’d lost her before forever was even on the horizon.
For just a moment, the old fears kicked in—a gut reaction. Was it because I’d been too complacent? Too confident in my ability to protect people I loved from harm? Was that smile on my face a little too cocky? Had I really believed that bad things didn’t happen to good people?
Because they did.
All the time.
I saw it on the job every single day. You could be a good man, the best man you knew how to be, but you were a fool if you believed what you love couldn’t be taken from you. It could. In an instant.
That’s why I was better off alone.
My phone vibrated on the dresser. Grateful, I picked it up and looked at the screen.
Cheyenne: I’m ready.
Me: Me too.
Cheyenne: Should I walk over?
My gut instinct was to go get her, but that would make it seem more like a romantic thing. Best to keep this strictly platonic in every way.
Me: Sure. I’ll meet you outside.
I shoved my phone into my pocket, said goodbye to my mother and Mariah, and went outside. When I saw her coming up the driveway in the backyard, my body temperature soared, and I dropped my keys in the snow.
She looked gorgeous. Her hair fell in loose, honey-colored waves around her shoulders, and she was wrapped up in a giant gray sweater that looked like a blanket I wanted to crawl under.
And her lips—they were a bright scarlet color, which stood out against all the white surrounding us, like a neon sign shouting KISS ME ALREADY YOU FUCKING IDIOT!
As I bent to retrieve my keys, I felt like dunking my head in the snow. Maybe even lying down in it and rolling around.
I ran way too hot around her.
“So tell me about the houses you’re going to see on Friday,” Cheyenne said, lifting her glass of white wine.
Tearing my eyes from her mouth for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour, I took a quick drink of my beer and set it down.
“One of them is pretty close to my mom’s house—maybe too close,” I added, making her laugh, “and the other two are south of town, closer to the water. One is right near the creek, although it’s a little out of my price range. ”
“I’m excited for you.” She picked up her fork and twirled it in her linguine.
When I’d asked her what she felt like for dinner, she’d suggested Italian, which I was happy about. Not only did I love the food at DiFiore’s, but it was small and quiet, with dim lighting and deep leather booths in the back that offered some privacy.
“Thanks. We’re excited too.” I cut into my osso buco, which was my favorite thing on the menu. “They’re all nice houses, but each of them needs some work.”
“How does your mom feel about you moving out?”
“I think she’s conflicted, to be honest. We’ve been there so long, and she likes having people to take care of. I remember how lonely she was after my dad died. When Mariah and I moved in, that gave her a purpose.”
“That’s understandable. I’m a caretaker personality too.”
“But it was never supposed to be permanent, our living with her.”
“I think you two will love having a place of your own. And your mom is going to be just fine.”
“I hope so.” I picked up my beer. “She loves to drop these passive aggressive comments about how she doesn’t really see the point in buying a house of my own if I’m not going to get married again.
She keeps asking if I’m going to hire a housekeeper and a cook, because she cannot imagine how I’m going to be able to keep the place clean or my child fed. ”
Cheyenne grinned. “Can you cook?”
“A little,” I said defensively. “I can make pancakes, grilled cheese, and spaghetti.”
“Boom.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner right there.”
“I can also make meatballs,” I announced.
“Meatballs!” Cheyenne arched one brow. “I’m impressed.”
“Yes. Believe it or not, Mrs. Moretti taught me. But I was made to understand that if I ever gave the recipe to anyone else, she’d have to kill me.”
Her head fell back as she laughed, and I was distracted by her throat—its pale skin, the hollow at the base, the curve of her neck to her shoulder.
Earlier, in my car on the ride to town, I’d caught the scent of her perfume, and imagined the way it would fill my head if I put my lips beneath her ear, or brushed them against her collarbone, or swept them along her jaw.
“Cole?”
Blinking, I snapped my attention back to her eyes. She was studying me with a curious look on her face. “What?”
“I asked if you were hoping to move before the holidays.”
“Oh.” I realized how hard I was gripping my beer and set it down. “Um, I’d love to be in a new house by the new year. But there’s a lot of things that would need to be in place for that to happen.”
She took another bite of her pasta and sighed. “I’m so jealous. I wish I could move out by the new year.”
“Your mom gave you a hard time today, huh?”
“And then some. Right in front of your daughter, who’s probably going to end up with a warped sense of self-esteem because if she listens to Darlene Dempsey, she’s going to think a woman can’t be happy without a man.”
“No wonder our moms are such good friends,” I said.