Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“Yes. That was so fun,” she said, looking at her bright blue toenails. “Can we do it again sometime?”
“Absolutely.”
“And watch Grease again too?”
I grinned, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. “You know it. Grease and I go together like rama-lama-lama, ka-dinga-da-dinga-dong.”
She laughed as we went out the front door. “Who’s your favorite character?”
“Hmm. I’ll say Sandy. I identify with her.” I looked at her as we cut across the lawn in the dark. “How about you?”
“I liked Frenchy. Think my dad would let me dye my hair pink?”
“Um, no.”
Mrs. Mitchell had said she would leave the back door open, so Mariah and I were walking up the driveway when headlights flashed at us from behind. We quickly scooted out of the way and up onto the back porch.
“Your dad’s home,” I said, watching him pull into the garage at the back of the yard. “Want to wait for him?”
“Sure.” She turned around and caught me breathing into my palm to check my breath. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, smiling as Cole approached, the garage door closing behind him.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” Butterflies took flight inside my belly, remembering the way he’d flipped me beneath him and pinned me down. “You’re home early.”
He nodded, slowly climbing the porch steps. “Did you guys have fun?”
“Yes,” Mariah said. “Look at my toes, aren’t they cute?” She held up one foot.
“Blue, huh?” He chuckled and shook his head, as if girls were a mystery to him.
“Can I dye my hair pink?”
“No. What do you say to Miss Cheyenne?”
Mariah wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “Thank you, Miss Cheyenne.”
I embraced her. “You’re welcome, honey. We’ll do it again soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
Cole pushed the door open, nudging Mariah inside. “Go on up and brush your teeth. I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in.”
“Can Miss Cheyenne tuck me in tonight, Dad?” Mariah asked.
“Not tonight, peanut. It’s late.”
“Please?” she wheedled, clasping her hands beneath her chin.
“I don’t mind,” I said.
Cole looked at me. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“Okay.” He looked at his daughter. “But no wasting time. Get up there, get your pajamas on and teeth brushed, and get in bed. And be extra quiet, so you don’t wake Grandma.”
“Okay,” she said, hurrying into the house.
Cole held the door open for me, and I stepped inside the kitchen, my heart beating overtime. Only the light over the stove was on, leaving the room shadowy and intimate. The hum of the refrigerator seemed loud.
“How was the party?” I asked quietly.
He closed the door behind us. “It was okay. Mostly I played darts with Beckett while Moretti flirted with a waitress and Griffin kept telling people to stop buying him shots.”
“I hope he wasn’t driving himself home.” I followed Cole to the front of the house, where he took off his coat and hung it in the hall closet.
“Nah. Beckett was driving him.” He shut the closet door and turned to face me. “Thanks again for having Mariah over tonight.”
“My pleasure.”
“I’m really grateful for the time you spend with her.” He glanced up the stairs. “She needs it, I think. Especially as she’s getting older. I’ll just say it right now—I’m dreading puberty.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll always be there for her. No matter where you live.”
“Thanks,” he said, his voice deep and soft. He moved a little closer to me in the dark. “I appreciate you, Cheyenne. I hope you know that.”
My lips fell open.
“And listen,” he went on. “About earlier, in my room.”
“Okay, I’m ready,” whispered Mariah from the top of the stairs, breaking the spell.
Cole cleared his throat and stepped back.
With my heart pounding like ocean waves in my chest, I went up the steps, gripping the banister for balance. What had he been about to say?
At the top of the stairs, I followed Mariah to her room and watched her slip beneath a yellow comforter covered with daisies. Then I went and sat on the edge of the bed. Her bedside lamp was on, and I noticed the photo of Trisha next to her clock on the nightstand. It was a close-up of her smiling face, and she absolutely radiated happiness, the kind of glow you couldn’t get from mashed bananas.
Mariah saw me looking at it. “That’s my mom,” she said.
I smiled at the little girl. “I know.”
“Were you friends with her?”
I tilted my head this way and that. “Not really. She was three years ahead of me in school and had her own group of friends. But she was around a lot, because she hung out with your dad and Griffin. And she was always nice to me.”
“Do you think I look like her?” she asked, glancing at the photo.
“Yes. I do. And that’s a good thing because she was very beautiful. Even though looks are not the most important thing about a girl,” I added quickly, trying to navigate this rocky terrain on the fly. Every girl wanted to feel beautiful, right? So how did you assure her she was without making it seem too important? “Kindness is more important. And your mom had lots of that.”