Page 3 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

The work that I need to put into making her perfect doesn’t scare me.

If anything, it’s my own personal challenge.

It’s a task half the town doesn’t believe is possible.

Basically, I’ve got a lotta shit to prove.

She might look like a dump now, but one day, it will be the best-looking thang in a two-hundred-mile radius.

One of my best qualities is that I can see potential in things.

I step onto the porch, the boards creaking, as the plastic grocery bags dig into my wrists and hands. Mid-morning sunlight hits the old wood, catching on every nail I’ve reset and every rotten board I’ve replaced. Things are changing around here, but not fast enough for my liking.

Once inside, I walk down the wide hallway toward the large kitchen that overlooks the old barn I recently rebuilt. I catch a glance of my horses grazing and smile as I set the bags down on the breakfast nook. It takes me no time to put the groceries away.

After a deep breath, I grab the whiskey bottle from the cabinet.

I know it’s nearly ten in the morning, but a few sips never hurt the creative process.

I crank up the old country playlist I keep cued up for long workdays.

I scan my to-do list scribbled across the whiteboard on my fridge.

It’s my own personal roadmap, and I take it one task at a time, only wishing I had an extra set of hands to help.

My eyes scan down it.

Sheetrock: living room, hallway, dining room, library

Baseboards

Paint

Considering it’s only Sunday, I might be able to finish the living room and hallway before the rodeo comes to town. I still haven’t decided if I’m going or not though.

I’m not on a specific schedule, but I’m racing against time to finish remodeling before the first cold front rolls through.

There are a few livable rooms—the kitchen, one bathroom, part of the living room, and the primary bedroom downstairs. The rest is still bones and echoes for now.

I glance around, thinking about Sunny. She had that same unfinished look, like something was cracked wide open and she was trying to hold herself together. Beautiful but strong, even while breaking.

I wonder if I called her right now and made the offer, would she take me up on it? There was something sizzling between us. I felt it, and by the look on her face, she did too.

The paper she wrote her number on is still in my truck, but I don’t go get it. I’ve learned over the years not to force stuff. If it’s meant to be, things happen.

The rest of the day passes in rhythm—measure twice, cut once, repeat.

I’ve got the living room insulated by the time I hear the rumble of a truck barreling down the driveway.

Clouds of dust kick up, country music blaring louder with each second they move closer.

Only one person announces themselves like that—Emmett.

I step out onto the porch as the truck comes to a stop. He kills the engine and climbs out with broad shoulders, messy hair, wearing a shit-eating grin. My little brother is stacked with muscles.

“Howdy!” he hollers as he walks up the porch, looking at the house like it’s gonna bite him. “This place still gives me the fucking creeps.”

When we were growing up, ghost stories swarmed around, and this abandoned property was the center of a lot of hazing back in the day.

Most folks avoid it, saying it’s cursed, and, hell, maybe it is, but it doesn’t bother me.

When I’m here, I feel at peace, safe. I see what it’ll be one day, not what it’s always been.

“Good,” I tell him, patting him on the back. “Appreciate your help with this.”

The Sheetrock is stacked against the wall waiting to be hung. I could manage it solo, but having an extra pair of hands makes it safer, especially with the high ceilings.

Emmett grabs a pair of gloves without me asking, and we quickly get to work. He grumbles under his breath the whole time. That’s the thing about Emmett: he may give me shit, but he always shows up. He’s dependable and caring, even if he’s an asshole.

It takes us close to two hours, but the living room is finished. When we take a step back to look over our work, I smile. My brother looks around.

“Wow, you’ve gotten a lot of shit done since the last time I was here,” he says. “Gonna be nice when it’s finished.”

“I can’t wait,” I tell him. “Want a shot of whiskey?”

“Nah. Gonna go home and take a shower, then head to Boot Scooting.”

It’s the local bar in town that has pool tables and dancing; it’s one of the hangouts for forty and under, and it’s always busy, especially on the weekends.

“Of course,” I tell him, moving to the kitchen and grabbing the bottle anyway. It’s where I left it this morning before I got started.

He follows behind me.

“Kitchen looks nice as fuck,” he says. “Impressed.”

I lean against the counter, taking a swig, and feel the soreness in my muscles from the work I completed today. “Thanks. And thanks for your help. Tomorrow, I’ll start in the hallways, then make my way into the dining room, and then the library. First floor is almost done. Two weeks, max.”

He grins, and his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks at the screen, immediately declining the call.

My brows lift curiously.

He straightens his stance. “Anyway, gotta go. Let me know if you need more help tomorrow. Be happy to stop by after work.” He heads toward the door, and I follow behind him. “Oh, don’t forget dinner plans on Thursday.”

“Thanks. I’ll text ya if I need help,” I say, appreciating the extra set of hands more than he’ll ever know.

“You goin’ to the rodeo this weekend?” I ask.

“Yep,” he tells me, and I watch that grin spread across his face like he’s already thinking about whoever’s waiting for him.

“With more than one person?”

“Hopefully,” he says, climbing into his truck.

Classic Emmett. Known playboy. Refuses to commit. And I’ve got a damn good guess which heart he’s currently messing with. Only problem, she ain’t innocent either.

I stand on the porch, whiskey in hand, watching my brother’s taillights disappear down the long dirt road. He turns onto the highway, and his lights fade away.

For a while, we were roommates. Two bachelors living on oven pizza and bad habits. But the second I laid eyes on this place, I knew I needed it. Not just for a project, but to build something more permanent.

The moon hangs low in the sky, swollen and golden, like it’s been watching me. I lean against the porch railing, letting the whiskey burn down my throat as I enjoy the view.

I walk inside, knowing I’ve put hours into these walls, patched scars into strength. It’s where I’m dropping roots, preparing a life for my future wife and kids. The vision is so vivid that I can’t help but smile. I can’t fucking wait to fall in love again.