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)
“Sounds like a busy day,” I said. I could smell her perfume—not bananas this time, but something floral, feminine and sweet. She was dressed in what looked like her work clothes, fitted navy pants, a navy blouse with flowers all over it, a soft pink cardigan sweater, and beige flats. The front of her hair was neatly pulled back, and her skin seemed luminous, her cheeks pink from the chilly night air. It made me want to warm her up.
“I found some!” Mariah came rushing over to the table with a stack of colored construction paper. “Will this work?”
“Absolutely,” Cheyenne said. “Thank you so much. See what we’re making?” She flashed the phone screen at Mariah, who gasped.
“I want to make one! I wish I was in fifth grade so I could have a kindergarten reading buddy.”
“Next year,” Cheyenne promised.
“Can I still make one with you tonight?” she asked hopefully.
“Sure.” Cheyenne looked at me. “Unless it’s bedtime?”
I checked the clock on the wall. “She’s got about half an hour—an hour if I’m nice.”
Laughing, Cheyenne glanced at the kitchen table. “Want to work here or at my house, Mariah?”
“Here,” Mariah said. “That way Daddy can make one too.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, ruffling her hair, “but I’ll sit with you guys.”
“Yay!” Mariah ran over to the table for four and pulled out the chair between mine and hers. “Miss Cheyenne, you can sit here.”
“Okay. But first I need to run back to my house and grab a couple things. I’ll be right back.”
While she was gone, I quickly snuck up to my room and checked my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. Shit—there was a faint yellow stain on the white T-shirt I’d thrown on after taking off my uniform. After swapping it for a nicer blue one—I remembered how she’d liked me in blue—I ran a brush over my hair and gave myself one squirt of cologne. At the last second, I decided to duck into the bathroom and brush my teeth, so by the time I got back downstairs, Cheyenne and Mariah were already seated at the table, tracing feather shapes onto the construction paper.
They both looked up at me as I walked into the kitchen.
“Did you change your clothes?” Mariah asked.
“Just my shirt,” I said, cursing my daughter for being so observant. “I spilled something on it.”
“When?”
“Earlier.” I went directly to the fridge and grabbed a Heineken. “Cheyenne, would you like a beer?”
“No, thanks.”
“How about a glass of wine?” I asked.
“Okay.”
“You like merlot?”
“I like it all,” she said with a laugh.
I opened a bottle and poured her a glass, bringing it to the table along with my beer. When I sat down, Mariah studied me carefully.
“Did you comb your hair?” she asked.
Self-conscious, I ran a hand over it. “No,” I lied.
“Oh.” She went back to tracing. A moment later, she picked up her head again and sniffed. “What’s that smell? Dad, are you wearing cologne?”
Stifling the urge to throttle my kid, I took a long swig from the Heineken bottle and changed the subject. “Maybe I will make one of those things. Got an extra turkey for me?”
“Of course.” Cheyenne picked up a cardboard turkey cutout and handed it to me.
I could have taken it from her without any skin-to-skin contact at all simply by grabbing the other end of it.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I reached over and covered her hand with mine—and I didn’t let go. Mariah’s head was bent over her work, so she didn’t notice, but Cheyenne stared at our hands, a blush creeping into her cheeks. Not from the cold this time, but from the warmth of the touch.
Then I loosened my grip and slid the cardboard from her grasp, setting it in front of me. Immediately I reached for my beer bottle, and Cheyenne did the same with her wine glass.
My heart was beating hard and fast. I felt ridiculous, like a fifth grader who’d just held hands with a girl for the first time. For fuck’s sake, I’d tackled her on my bed the other night. This was nothing.
Except, it felt like something.
Four
Cheyenne
Cole Mitchell held my hand.
Cole Mitchell held my hand.
Cole Mitchell held my hand.
I took another sip of wine, traced the same damn feather I’d already traced five times, and reviewed the moment again.
Had I imagined it?
I’d picked the cardboard turkey up off the table, held it out to him, and instead of just taking it from me, he’d sort of enclosed my hand inside his and paused for several seconds.
Could I call that handholding? Did it count? Did it mean anything that he’d changed his shirt, combed his hair and put on cologne? Because Mariah was right—he’d definitely spruced himself up a bit before coming back to the table. Was I flattering myself that it could be for me? But what other reason was there?