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)
I nodded. “Right.”
“Hey. Come here.” She opened her arms and gave me a quick hug. “You’re going to figure this out.”
“Thanks. I just hope I figure it out before some other guy comes along and gets it right with her from the start.”
She shook her head. “Cole Mitchell, you know damn well you’ve been the only boy for her since she laid eyes on you. Now go convince her she’s the only girl for you.”
I went home and watched the ball drop with my mom and Mariah, but my mind was somewhere else. Something Blair said had stuck with me.
Cheyenne can read you like a book.
She was right. There was no use trying to hide things from Cheyenne. She could tell when something was bothering me just from looking at my face or listening to my body language. And I didn’t want to hide things from her. Even if it wasn’t in my nature to show people my scars, I’d learn to do it for her.
I’d do anything for her.
The next day, I made two phone calls.
The first was to Bianca DeRossi. “Hey, Bianca. Sorry to call you on a holiday, but I was wondering if we might get moving on that window seat we talked about. If you’re not busy this weekend, I’m off the next three days, and I’ll be moving some things over to the house. Let me know, thanks.”
Next, I left a message for Jessalyn Wells, asking her for the name and number of the therapist she’d tried to recommend for me.
Bianca called me back later that day, thrilled to get moving on the project for Cheyenne as well as walk through the house with me now that I owned it.
“How’s tomorrow at ten a.m.?” she asked.
“That’s great for me. You sure it won’t disrupt your Saturday plans?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The following morning, I was waiting for her at the new house when Jessalyn returned my call.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Cole. This is Jessalyn Wells.”
“Hi, Jessalyn. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
“Of course. So you’ve decided to speak with a therapist?”
I took a breath. “Yes. I’m at least going to give it a try.”
“I think that’s great, Cole. Really great.” She gave me the name and number of someone in her office that counseled adults and had done a lot of work with group grief therapy. “Not that you have to do that,” she said quickly, as if she knew I’d been about to protest at the idea of talking in front of a group. “I just wanted you to know she has experience working with people who have lost loved ones.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Well, I’ll let you go. Happy new year.”
“Happy new year,” I said.
We hung up, and I looked at the name and number I’d written down. Before I lost my nerve, I called it and left a message requesting an appointment. I wanted to have at least one session under my belt the next time I asked Cheyenne to give me another chance.
And by having the window seat built in the master bedroom, I wanted to show her that this would be our house—that her dreams and mine were intertwined now, that our future was here, together.
Bianca was one hundred percent on board. “You know what?” she said, eyeballing the space that morning. “We could knock this project out in a few days.”
“Really?”
“Sure. With some help.” She glanced at me. “You think you could get Enzo over here with some wood and a hammer?” Then she laughed and flashed her palms at me. “No pun intended.”
I laughed too. “I bet I could.”
“Excellent. Why don’t you give him a call? He’s much more likely to say yes to you than me.”
“Agreed,” I said, digging my cell from my pocket. “Calling him now.”
Moretti was in.
But he said if we were really going to do it right within only a few days, we’d need a couple more pairs of hands, so we enlisted Griffin and Beckett too.
We worked the entire weekend, and Moretti came back Monday to help me finish up. Bianca was fantastic as well. While the guys yanked up the carpeting, refinished the wood floors, and constructed not only a window seat but built-in bookshelves on either side of it, she rolled up her sleeves and painted the walls a soft gray.
She also shopped like her life depended on it.
By Tuesday evening, I had a king-sized bed with an upholstered headboard, made up with brand new sheets Bianca insisted Cheyenne would appreciate for their high thread count, a fluffy white quilt, and more pillows than two adults could possibly need. At the foot of the bed was a cozy throw blanket in a soft pink that reminded me of something Cheyenne would wear. Next to the bed on either side were two matching antique tables for nightstands with twin lamps sitting on top of them. Beneath the bed was a gray and white patterned rug. Over by the fireplace, which Beckett helped me get in working order, were two easy chairs and a small table in between, upon which Bianca had set a little tray with a bottle of wine and two glasses.