Page 16 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SUNNY

B y the time we get back to the house, my body is tired, but my brain won’t settle.

Dinner was beautiful. So many people talked over each other and somehow still listened. It was the type of chaos that filled an empty part of me. I felt like I belonged with them.

Colt’s family is big, unfiltered, and kind. Every single one of them treated me like I was a gift. Summer offered to pack us leftovers. Kinsley asked if I wanted my palm read. Vera slipped a flower into my hand and complimented my dress.

Remi pulled me aside in the kitchen and said, “He’s never brought anyone to dinner before. You should know that.”

I’m still holding on to those words, but I don’t want to admit how good it felt to be chosen.

This town is the opposite of everything I ran from.

I’m not used to quiet nights, crickets, unlocked doors, or people who wave when they drive by.

I don’t have to dodge camera flashes or fake my way through small talk about hedge fund mergers or strategic branding partnerships.

Valentine is a small town, where people build lives, not résumés.

My face hurts from smiling so much. I move to the bedroom, still wearing the sundress, and sit on the edge of the bed.

The room is quiet and safe, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, even though I know I shouldn’t.

No one’s texted me—not that I expected them to since no one has this number. I open the browser and type my name into the search bar. The headlines come fast and merciless.

Heiress Disappears Before Lavish NYC Wedding

Sources Say It Was Cold Feet

Tech Mogul Donovan Left Alone at Altar

PR Powerhouse Vanishes Without a Trace

There are photos too.

Donovan is standing in front of the venue with his bow tie, holding a glass of champagne like he’s trying to appear composed and worried.

In another one, he’s sitting on the venue steps with his head in his hands, surrounded by security.

The angles are too perfect, too staged. I know a planted narrative when I see one.

There’s even a shot of my clothes in the bridal suite. The cute pink pantsuit I wore to the venue before I changed into the dress is hanging on the door. A caption underneath it reads: No dress. No bride. No warning.

I lock the screen and set the phone down with a little more force than necessary. My pulse increases, and my jaw clenches tight. That familiar tension curls around my heart like a snake.

I know that PR crisis language. I used it to bury stories worse than this.

But this time, I’m the story, and Donovan is acting like a victim.

And whoever fed them these quotes wants me to stay gone so they can rewrite it all.

Skye.

I inhale, then exhale through my nose, trying to calm myself down before it spirals out of control. My sister not only took my fiancé, but now she’s working against me.

Colt walks in, running a hand through his hair, but he looks exhausted. He glances at me, but doesn’t push. He heads to the dresser to pull out a T-shirt.

I speak up before I can second-guess it. “Will you sleep in here again? From now on.”

He pauses, then looks at me with a crooked smile. “Whatever will make you happy.”

“You say that like you care,” I say.

“I do,” he admits, kicking off his boots. “I want the best for you.”

A part of me knows that’s true.

“You deserve someone who can love you like you need,” I tell him. “I don’t believe in love anymore.”

He smiles. “You will.”

“You’re so confident.” I remove my earrings and set them on the bedside table.

“My older brother always told me that when I met the woman I was supposed to be with, I’d know,” he says, sounding too casual as he smiles.

“What does that feel like?” I ask, needing confirmation if this is what’s swirling inside of me. It’s never sizzled like this with anyone else, but right now, I don’t trust myself or my emotions. I’ve been through too much shit, too fast.

He unbuttons his shirt, and I can’t peel my eyes away from him.

“You tell me.” He smiles. “I know you feel this too.”

My breath hitches. “You’re so direct.”

“I don’t have time to waste, darlin’. You’re leaving in thirteen days. I plan to make each one count,” he admits, sliding his belt from his jeans.

Colt moves to his dresser and pulls out a pair of black pajama pants.

I pull my gaze away from him.

“Please choose your favorite side,” I add, trying to change the subject. “Or the whole bed. I don’t care …” I tug at a loose thread on the hem of my dress. “I sleep better when you’re close. You calm everything down in me.”

He glances at me like he can hear every single word I’m not saying.

“Welp, now that I know I calm you down, I might sleep in the middle.”

The weight in my chest loosens enough to give me some relief.

He gets dressed for bed, and I steal glances at him, knowing I shouldn’t.

When he turns around, he tosses me another shirt. “This one is soft.”

I unfold the burgundy shirt and see his name written on the chest. On the back is the cattle brand he has tattooed on his chest. “Mmm. Trying to claim me with your family brand?”

This earns me a deep chuckle.

“Eventually,” he says. “I need some water. I’m suddenly parched. Would you like a glass?”

“No thanks,” I say.

He leaves the room, giving me privacy to change into his shirt.

I glance at myself, wearing his name over my breast in the full-length oval mirror that’s beside his dresser.

When I turn, I look at the room and imagine beautiful artwork hanging above the bed, a plush rug under my feet, and a few tall lamps.

The furniture is beautiful, all handmade.

I wouldn’t change a thing, only make small additions.

He walks in, catching me staring. “Imagining our future?” he asks.

I playfully roll my eyes, but the truth is, I was. I crawl under the covers and turn on the bedside lamp. “You’re not used to chasing someone, are you?”

“No,” he admits. “I’ve never had to work for it. Truthfully? I love it.”

He climbs into bed and gives me space without feeling too distant. We lie there in the dark, not touching, not talking. Just breathing in the same rhythm.

“Good night,” he says.

I move closer to him, and he wraps me in his arms. For the first time since I left New York, I don’t want to run anymore. But based on the headlines, my past might catch up to me.

The sunlight filters in, and I blink against it, finding myself already smiling, even before I open my eyes fully.

Colt is still asleep. One arm is tossed behind his head on the pillow, the other resting across his stomach. The sheet is low on his hips, and the sight of him, bare-chested, stubbled, almost makes me forget this is only temporary.

Almost.

I slide out of bed carefully and pad barefoot into the kitchen. He joins me a few minutes later, wearing a worn gray T-shirt and jeans, like sin disguised as simplicity. His hair is still sleep-ruffled, and he smells like soap and cedar and everything tempting. He’s not wearing his glasses today.

“Morning,” he says, grabbing a mug from the cabinet.

I nod, already sipping from mine. “How do you look that good without trying?”

He grins. “It’s a burden. Always has been.”

“Not for me,” I mutter. “More like a treat.”

He’s too smug and too hot and far too comfortable in this house, in this kitchen, with me standing so close.

“You ready to run into town with me?” he asks, sipping his coffee.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope. It’ll be good for ya,” he offers. “Change of scenery.”

After I’m dressed, I follow him out to the truck. The morning air is already warming up. It’s a comfortable heat that wraps around you rather than beating you down. It smells like fresh grass and something sweet, like flowers.

Colt tosses a few bags into the bed of the truck before circling to open the passenger door for me. It’s unnecessary and charming, which describes him far too well.

Once we’re on the road, he drives with the windows down and one hand on the wheel, the other in the breeze.

Every time he turns the wheel, his forearm flexes enough to make me forget what day it is.

He hums along to a country song playing low on the radio, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in a rhythm that feels carefree.

I steal a glance at him when he smiles, and something about it lands too deep in my heart, too fast. He looks like a man who’s never had to second-guess whether he belongs somewhere.

The wind lifts strands of my hair across my cheek, and I close my eyes for a second, letting the sunlight kiss my skin. It’s warm, and I feel alive. This is the closest thing I’ve ever had to true freedom.

It will eventually come to an end, and I try to remind myself of that. But sitting here, in his truck, in this tiny town, with nowhere to be and everything to feel—it makes me want to believe things could be different. That could be true if I were someone different. But I’m not.

We head down Main Street, and he pulls the truck into the gravel road of the feed store.

Colt’s practically a local celebrity in boots and a ball cap, speaking to every third person we pass. Before we even make it inside, an older gentleman stops him to chat about his house.

“The rumor is that old place is haunted. You think it is?”

“No, sir,” Colt tells him with a chuckle. “Only thing hauntin’ those walls are me and my music.”

“Tell your daddy I said hello,” the guy says with a wave. He gives me a nod, then heads to his truck.

Colt opens the door for me, and we walk inside.

Everyone knows him by name. But today, they look at me too. Not in a judgmental way or with surprise, but rather curiosity—like they’ve already heard the story of me and they’re now seeing how it plays out in real time.

The woman behind the counter glances at our hands like she expects them to be linked. I keep mine at my side, but the air between us feels warmer than it should. I can read it on every person’s face—they all believe we’re a couple.

“Need to get some feed for the horses. Few bales of alfalfa too. Have ’em load it for me, please,” he says, glancing at me. “Would you like anything? A Coke? Candy?”

“No thank you,” I tell him as he pays.

He places his hand on the small of my back as he leads me through the store and back outside. A few teenagers are already placing the items he purchased in the bed of the truck. Colt slips them a few dollars, then opens my door.

“Ready for stop number two?” he asks.

I nod, but my voice is caught somewhere in my throat as we pull into the parking lot of the local nursery.

The moment we step onto the gravel path, I smell earth and blooming things and sun-warmed stone. Vera isn’t working today, but every flowerpot we pass feels like something she put together. Lavender, creeping thyme, and wild roses stretch toward the sky.

Colt crouches to inspect a flat of basil, running a hand over the leaves, like he’s making sure they’re strong enough to be chosen. I stand beside him, arms crossed, watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his T-shirt when he moves.

He glances up, catches me staring, and grins. “You’re not even pretending not to stare.”

“Don’t need to,” I admit, folding my arms tighter to keep from reaching for him.

He straightens, brushing a bit of dirt from his palms. “Pick something out for the herb garden I’m planting.”

I wander a little, trailing my fingers along the edge of a glazed pot until I find what I’m searching for. I hold it up.

“This one,” I say. “Cilantro. If you plant tomatoes and onions, then we can have salsa.”

“Love that idea.” Colt reaches for my hand without thinking. It’s instinctive, smooth, like he’s done it a thousand times before. His palm is warm against mine, his fingers wrapping around like a promise I didn’t ask for.

“You’re really committed to the bit,” I say as we head back to the truck, but I don’t let go of him.

His thumb brushes over the top of my hand. “As long as you’re convinced, that’s all that matters to me,” he says, shooting me a side-glance.

I shake my head but find myself smiling. Flirt.

By the time we reach the grocery store, the heat has crept higher, baking off the pavement and making everything sizzle. We take our time inside, picking up things we probably don’t need. I chuckle in the aisle when he pushes the cart alongside me.

As we check out, he grabs two bottles of cream soda from the small fridge and puts them on the belt. “You gotta try this.”

I do.

I take it without speaking, and we move to the checkout together, hand in hand, like it’s second nature.

The woman ringing us up doesn’t blink. “You two going to the rodeo this weekend?”

I open my mouth to respond, but Colt beats me to it.

“We wouldn’t miss it.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but I can see the smile tugging at his mouth.

Outside, the sun presses hot against my skin as we climb into the truck. I sink into the passenger seat, the cilantro and basil plants resting in my lap, the cream soda cold in my hand.

Colt starts the engine and lets his arm fall across the back of my seat as he backs out.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m thinking,” I reply.

I turn toward the window, watching the town roll by. It’s all dusty roads, shop windows, and hanging baskets overflowing with petunias. Locals wave, and Colt returns it. I can’t help but smile when I see a dog napping in front of the bakery.

He nods once. “About what?”

“About how this place feels like home.”

Colt doesn’t say anything. His hand squeezes mine, but I don’t pull away. I just smile.