Page 32 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

STORMY

I ’m still barefoot and flipping through paint swatches in the hallway when Colt finds me.

“Are you sure you want me to pick the color?” I ask. Leaving my imprint on his walls seems like a big deal to me, and I can’t decide.

“Positive,” he tells me as he leans against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing that lazy smirk that drives me wild. “Could use your touch.”

He’s shirtless again, and he still smells like soap from the shower he just took. Colt looks annoyingly good without even trying. Today, we woke up at sunrise and have worked nonstop, taking only food and water breaks. However, every wall is up and painted with a base coat now. We’re a good team.

“You doin’ anything tonight?” he asks casually.

I raise an eyebrow. “Well, I was gonna spend some quality time with paint samples, maybe light a candle, whisper sweet nothings to eggshell whites.”

He chuckles. “Cancel your plans. Let’s go out.”

I pause, the paint swatch in my hand already forgotten. “Like … out, out ?”

“Yeah. Out on the town,” he says. “A change of scenery would be nice.”

I stare at him for a beat, trying to gauge how serious he is. But he’s watching me with that steady look he gives me right before he rearranges my rules. Right now, I want him to rearrange my guts, but I keep that to myself.

“Can I ask where we’re going?”

“There’s a bar downtown called Boot Scooting. It’s one of the local country music bars that has a nice dance floor and pool tables in the back. London’s band is playing, and I’d love to support them. Plus, the drinks are cold.”

“Sounds like fun, but I dunno if my two left feet can handle any more dancing,” I tease.

He steps into my space, and I look up at him.

His voice drops. “Oh, come on. Need to teach ya how to two-step.”

My stomach dips, heat flaring under my skin. “Uh …”

He moves forward, grabbing my body. He guides me gently, his hand firm against the small of my back, the other holding mine in a loose, confident grip. “It’s easy. One step, then two, just like this.

“One,” he murmurs, stepping back slowly. “Two. Step together.”

I follow, a little clumsy at first, but his body doesn’t waver. He’s patient, and he moves in a slow rhythm, his bare feet sliding across the old hardwood like he was born, knowing how to do this.

“I suck at this,” I mutter.

He grins, eyes locked on mine. “You’re doin’ fine. It’s not about perfect steps. It’s about how it feels.”

“How does it feel?” I ask, breathing a little shorter now.

I’m overly aware of every inch of him—his chest brushing mine, the scent of soap clinging to his skin, the way he holds me close.

“Like it’s meant to be,” he says and spins me suddenly, pulling me right back into him before I can even squeal.

I crash into his chest, laughing as I grip his shoulders. “Okay, that wasn’t a beginner move.”

“That was a cowboy move,” he says, smirking. “Had to make sure you were paying attention.”

“I’m paying attention,” I say, heart thudding, smile wide.

We sway in place for a few more beats, no music playing except the rhythm of our feet and the quiet thrum of something sweet and wild between us.

He dips his head, brushing his nose against my cheek, and his voice comes low. “Not sure if you realize this yet, but you’re a damn good partner.”

“Only when you’re leading,” I whisper, then laugh against his chest when I step on his toes.

“That’s true. But I think you’re ready,” he says, spinning me around again. “It’ll be fun.”

“I trust you,” I say, grinning wide. “Do I have time for a shower?”

“Yep, sure do.”

“Will you pick out my clothes?” I ask.

“Fuck yeah,” he tells me.

I flash him a grin and disappear into the bathroom and quickly shower.

By the time I walk into the bedroom, Colt is dressed in Wranglers and a nice button-up, smelling like temptation on legs. Several outfits are laid out on his bed, and he’s sitting next to them.

“Dealer’s choice,” he tells me, ankles crossed, looking so damn relaxed.

I drop the towel, and his eyes stay focused on mine.

“Tempting,” he says.

I smirk, moving forward, thankful that Kinsley and Summer gave me so many clothes.

I slide on a blue jean skirt and a tank top, then move to the mirror in the corner.

I swipe on a bit of mascara and lip gloss, then run my fingers through my hair to shake out the waves.

No need to overdo it—he’s already seen me at my worst, and somehow, he still looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world.

Behind me, I hear the soft creak of the mattress as he stands.

“You look incredible,” he says, voice full of that easy warmth that makes my knees weak. “And you smell so damn good.”

I turn to him. “Thank you. I’m almost ready. Just need my boots.”

“I’ll get ’em.”

He walks into the closet and emerges with them in his hand.

He places them in front of me like they’re something sacred.

Then, without saying a word, Colt drops to one knee.

I look down at him as he bows before me.

He just smirks up at me, all relaxed confidence as he picks up the first boot.

His hands slide up my bare calf, steady as he slips the boot on.

Then the other. When he’s done, he smooths his palm over my shin and looks up at me with that unrushed stare that makes me unravel.

“There,” he says, standing slow and tall, blue eyes never leaving mine. “Now you’re ready to drive every man in that bar to drink.”

I step in closer, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Good thing I only care about one man’s attention.”

He leans in, brushing his lips over mine. “You’ve had mine since the day you walked into my life like a damn storm.”

He kisses me again before pulling back with that devilish grin. “Let’s go raise a little hell, darlin’.”

And just like that, I follow him out the door, boots on my feet, his name on my heart, and every intention of dancing like I finally belong. Because he makes me believe I do.

Twenty minutes later, we arrive at Boot Scooting.

I can tell I’m going to love it by the neon sign in the window and the haphazard line of dollar bills stapled to the ceiling of the entryway.

Inside, it’s all rough pine walls and old metal signs for motor oil and chewing tobacco, and it’s crowded for a weeknight, but I guess it is still summer.

The stage lights are on, and guitars are on stands, along with the drum kit.

On the front of the bass drum, it says, The Heartbreakers .

The bar is already half full by the time we get there.

Locals are scattered between high-tops and booths.

The jukebox is humming something slow and familiar under the low rumble of voices and laughter as everyone waits for the show.

There’s a partition to the side that’s full of pool tables, a dartboard, and a line of stools at the bar, which is so used that the wood is worn with wear.

Colt’s hand doesn’t leave the small of my back from the second we walk in. It’s not subtle. Not a friendly guide-through-the-door kind of touch. It’s possessive. Intentional. And every time his fingers flex, I feel it like a spark under my skin.

People turn and glance at us. It’s not in a dramatic way, but I know we’ve been talked about.

London approaches us and gives me a tight hug and then swings her arms around Colt. “You came!”

“Of course I did. I’m your biggest fan,” he tells her. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, little sis.”

She beams wide. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

I feel the same sentiment.

“Happy you’re here too,” London says to me then glances at the time on her phone. “Oops. I, gotta go!”

“Break a leg,” Colt tells her.

London disappears toward the stage with a final wink, and the overhead lights dim just slightly as the band starts to warm up. The crowd’s energy shifts, and it becomes more excited. Someone whistles from the back, and Colt chuckles beside me.

“She’s got herself a fan club,” he says, looking at the crowded room.

“It’s a Valentine trait,” I tease, leaning into him as he wraps his arm around me.

London steps up to the mic, the strap of her guitar sliding over her shoulder. She tucks her dark, curled hair behind her ear and flashes the crowd a smile that’s all cheekbones and shine.

“Hi, y’all! My name is London, and we’re The Heartbreakers! This first one’s kinda new, a song I wrote for my big brother,” she says, her voice clear and confident. “He’s my biggest fan, and he recently inspired me to write this love song. It’s called ‘Right One, Right Time.’”

I glance up at Colt, but he’s already looking at me. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes are warm. Wrecked really.

“Guess that’s about us,” I say softly.

“Seems like it,” he says, lips grazing the side of my temple.

The first notes of the song roll through the bar, honey sweet, full of slide guitar and yearning. The melody of the guitar doesn’t need lyrics to pull a person’s heart in. It’s free and light, a twinkle of a song that’s followed by her twang.

Colt holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”

I hesitate for half a second, but he’s already pulling me toward the open space near the stage where other people are dancing. A few other couples follow behind us. Some are older, swaying like they’ve been dancing together since Reagan was president; many are younger, around London’s age.

When Colt pulls me into his arms, the room falls away.

His palm finds the center of my back, his other hand clasping mine just right. We move slowly, barely more than a sway. His eyes stay locked on mine, and all my worries disappear. In this moment, I’m his, and that’s all that matters.

“You good?” he asks, dipping his head to whisper against my ear.

“Better than good,” I say.

“Love to hear it.” He pulls me closer.

The song builds gently around us—London’s voice strong and sweet, wrapping around the words like she wrote them just for this moment. I rest my head on Colt’s chest, breathing in his scent, the low vibration of his hum under my cheek.