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)
“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.”
Moretti started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Dude,” he said. “You’re a mess.”
“Fuck off.”
“Hey, I’m kidding. So things are going well, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, ignoring that icy little sliver of doubt that kept trying to get under my skin. “They’re going great.”
“Told you there was nothing to worry about.”
I had to laugh. “Are you serious? That’s not what you said at all.”
“What did I say?”
“You said I could totally fuck it up and things could always go wrong.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Which did not exactly inspire confidence. Thankfully, I ignored you.”
“Then my advice is to keep on ignoring me. Somehow, I’m helping. I’m sure of it.”
After I took care of Cheyenne’s car, I got out of there quickly so she wouldn’t catch me.
She called me around four o’clock. I was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for Mariah to get home.
“Hello?”
“Cole Mitchell! Did you do this?”
“What?” I couldn’t keep a grin off my face.
“My car! I was so grumpy, expecting to come out and find it all covered with snow, but it was totally cleaned off!”
“You must have a secret admirer,” I told her.
“Well, it was the best thing ever. Please tell him he’s the perfect man.”
“Come on, nobody’s perfect.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” she insisted. “I’m telling you. He’s perfect.”
I grinned. “Go on.”
“He’s gorgeous and sweet and generous. He makes me laugh, he’s the best dad ever, and everyone who knows him says what a great guy he is.”
“Yeah?”
“Plus,” she went on, lowering her voice, “he’s an incredible kisser, he’s good with his hands, and as an added bonus, he has a huge dick and knows how to use it.”
I felt like thumping my chest. “Good for him.”
“I’m madly in love with him,” she said. “I always have been, always will be.”
“Frankly, I’m not sure he deserves you,” I told her. “What makes you think he can make you happy?”
She laughed. “Some things, you just know.”
The following day, Wednesday, Moretti shared Bianca DeRossi’s contact information with me. At least, I assumed it was Bianca’s. He had her first and last name as Witchy Vixen. After shooting him a quick thanks, I saved her info—under the correct name—and gave her a call after work.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Bianca?”
“This is she.”
“Hey, this is Cole Mitchell. I’m a friend of Enzo Moretti’s and we met—”
“Of course! How are you, Cole?”
“Good. How are you?”
“Doing great, thanks. How’s the house coming along?”