Page 33 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

When the last note hits, he tilts my chin up, kissing me, like he’s sealing something permanent between us.

When we part, there’s a small burst of applause around the room, but I hardly hear it.

Colt smiles, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “Perfect partner.”

I look up into his eyes and almost believe it.

The next song is upbeat, and several people flood the stage so they can sing along with London, who works the crowd like she’s in a huge stadium.

“You know, your sister has talent.”

“I know,” he says with a laugh. “She’s gonna be huge.”

I cross my arms in front of me. “You do see the best in everything.”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do,” he says.

We slide into a couple of stools near the corner, and we’re half shadowed, half visible.

He leans forward, getting the bartender’s attention. “’Scuse me, sir.”

A guy comes over—a cute bartender, wearing a cowboy hat. “Sunny, this is my friend Boone Tucker. His parents own this place.”

Boone takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.

Colt’s jaw clenches. “I will fuck you up.”

I laugh. “Nice to meet you.”

“If it doesn’t work out with Colty, lemme know,” he says. “Whatcha drinkin’? You look like a dry-martini type of woman. Or you like drinkin’ your whiskey neat.”

My mouth falls open. “How did you do that?”

“I’m good at readin’ people, especially those boss-babe women from the city. It’s the vibe.”

My brow lifts. “I’ll take the martini. Extra dirty. Make sure the glass is clean,” I tell him matter-of-factly.

“The regular?” he asks Colt who gives him a quick head nod in return.

Colt smirks and turns back to me. “I love it when you turn that part of you on. It’s like a light switch.”

A few minutes later, Boone returns with our drinks.

“Y’all need anything, holler. Nice meetin’ you, miss. Treat my bestie right. He’s a good guy.”

“Aww, stop. She’s going to think I told you to say that,” he says with a laugh, lifting his glass.

We twist in the stools, so we can look at one another easier.

“Is he related to Jace?”

“You’re good at paying attention, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” I say.

“They’re brothers,” he explains. “Jace is three years younger than us. More of an asshole, if that’s possible.”

I commit that fact to memory, then focus back on him. “When I return to New York, I’d like to speak to someone about London.”

His eyebrows rise. “What do you mean?”

I lean in and whisper in his ear, “I have contacts who could help her.”

His fingers thread through my hair. “Seriously?”

“I have contacts in every area of the entertainment industry. She could be the next Taylor.”

Colt just stares at me for a second, his whiskey halfway to his lips. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” I say, taking a sip of my martini. “That girl has talent. Real talent. And she deserves more than playing covers in dusty bars and hoping the right person stumbles through the door.”

He looks toward the stage, where London’s setting up with her band, adjusting her mic and laughing with the drummer. “But you literally stumbled through the door of a dusty bar. You’re the right person, apparently.”

I tilt my head at him and laugh. “I guess you’re right.”

I stir my drink once, keeping my tone casual. “I can’t guarantee anything, only an introduction or a conversation with someone at a label I know. The rest would be on her. She has the talent; it will be an auto yes.”

He drags a hand over his mouth like he doesn’t know what to do with that. “I’m shocked.”

“Colt,” I say, setting my glass down and reaching for his hand, “she’s gonna be huge. Take some video of her on your phone right now, playing in this bar. Trust me.”

His eyes soften, but there’s something fierce flickering in them too—pride maybe. “Right now?”

I laugh. “Yes. Go make her a music video with your cell phone. Walk through the crowd. But bring your focus back to her singing and playing with her band.” I grab his arm. “Go!”

Colt cuts through the crowd like he owns the place—camera up, grin wide, energy buzzing off him in waves.

People laugh and cheer as he spins, recording the bartenders pouring drinks, couples two-stepping, and the band in full swing.

But every few seconds, he brings the lens right back to London.

She catches on somewhere in the second verse, brows lifting as her smile shifts from confused to thrilled.

Her voice doesn’t falter—if anything, it soars.

She’s feeding off the moment now, playing like she’s standing in front of a stadium instead of on a hardwood stage in a Texas dive bar.

And Colt? He’s still filming, hollering her name between whoops like he’s her entire PR team and fan base, rolled into one man with a cowboy hat and a camera phone. It’s perfect.

I drain the last sip of my martini and wave Boone over for another, my gaze locked on Colt as he hops onto the edge of the dance floor and spins in a full circle for dramatic effect. He stays out there for the entire four minutes, making sure he’s got as much footage as possible.

London laughs into the microphone. “My brother Colt, everyone.”

He turns around and waves with a smile before heading back toward me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright blue.

He drops onto the stool beside me, slightly out of breath. “Like that?”

“Exactly,” I say, tapping the screen. “Don’t ever delete it. The first music video she has, use that. Any footage you have like that is gold and a documentation of the very beginning. It’s to be cherished, but also, she’ll be able to share it with her fan base.”

With his hand on my thigh, he leans in. “Who are you?”

I grab his phone and google my name, then hand it to him. His eyes slide down the countless articles, and he shrugs like he doesn’t give a damn.

“That’s your reaction?” I’m shocked.

“What? That’s supposed to impress me?” He shakes his head with a laugh. “It doesn’t, darlin’.”

I stare at him like he just handed me the whole damn world. “I’ve never felt so normal .”

He shakes his phone. “This woman doesn’t matter. I don’t know her. Just the one who’s sitting in front of me.”

I blink at him, caught somewhere between undone and completely floored.

His arm is still casually draped across my leg, eyes steady on mine.

I blink fast, trying not to cry in the middle of a bar that smells like whiskey and barbecue sauce. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He chuckles. “Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

I laugh into his shoulder and wrap my arm around him, breathing in the scent of cedar and skin.

London starts another song, slower this time.

He pulls me close, his hands steady on my hips, and leans in and kisses me. London’s voice swells as she hits the chorus again, and the whole crowd sings with her now.

When we pull away, he whispers, “I’m happy.”

“And I’m the reason?”

“Sweetheart,” he says as I take a sip of my martini, “you’ve been the reason for a while now.”

The gin goes hot in my throat, and it buzzes through my bloodstream, settling somewhere in my belly.

We talk for a little while—about nothing, about everything. I catch him watching me instead of listening. When I lift my glass again, his eyes follow the movement like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” I say.

“Can’t help it,” he replies. “You’re mesmerizing.”

We don’t make it through the second drink before I’m ready for him to throw me over his shoulder and take me home.

I shift slightly, and his thumb drags a slow circle across my skin.

“Colt,” I whisper, more warning than protest.

His gaze flicks to mine. “I need you to stop looking at me like that.”

I lift a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to lose my damn mind in this bar.”

I take a sip, not smiling. Not denying it either.

Then I lean in and whisper, just loud enough for him to hear, “Then maybe stop looking at me like you already have.”

That’s all it takes.

He stands, reaches for my hand, and pulls me away from the bar without saying a damn word.