Page 45 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

“Ms. Langford,” he says with a gracious nod. “It’s been a while.”

“Hi, Dominic,” she says, as if they’ve done this dance before. “I’d like to get a few things for my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. I love how she unapologetically claimed me.

“Boyfriend? Let me guess. You’re a model.” Dominic’s eyes slide over me.

“Hell no,” I tell him.

“You should be,” he says and gestures us toward a back room.

We’re led into a private lounge that’s more like a hangout than a dressing area. There’s leather furniture, a wall of mirrors, a bar cart stocked with whiskey, and an empty rack, waiting to be filled with clothes.

Stormy turns to me with a grin. “All right, cowboy. Ready to play dress-up?”

The gentleman returns and measures my shoulders, length of my legs, chest, arms, basically everything. Five minutes pass, and he hangs clothes on the rack. I eye the different colors of button-up shirts, slacks, and dress shoes, and then he leaves us alone.

Stormy’s fingers graze over the fabrics. “This is a little different from your usual denim and charm.”

I smirk. “Good. Make sure I can pull off being a real househusband of Manhattan. Dress me.”

“Really?” she asks, her eyes lighting up as she moves to the rack and starts pulling things like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “You’re giving me total creative control?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Stormy pulls what she likes, then hooks the hangers on my finger.

“I only draw the line at bow ties,” I say.

“I agree.” Her lips twitch like she’s trying to hold back laughter. “But I make no promises about tight pants.”

I shoot her a glance as I turn toward the fitting room.

“Would be a whole lot better if you were in here with me,” I mutter as I change into the first outfit.

It’s a crisp white button-up and charcoal slacks. I glance in the mirror, rolling the sleeves to my forearms. I’m not used to clothes that fit like they’re made for me.

I return to the lounge, tugging at the collar a little. “Well?”

Stormy’s sitting on the arm of the leather couch, sipping sparkling water like she belongs in a magazine spread.

Her eyes slide from my mouth, down my body, then back up to my eyes. “Damn. Took my breath away.”

“That good?”

“Wow. So happy you’re mine. You look like a man who closes deals and breaks hearts before lunch,” she tells me.

I shake my head, smiling as I turn back to the mirror. “I feel like I need to call my lawyer.”

She laughs and stands to circle me. Her fingers brush the line of my shoulder as she straightens the collar, and then she smooths a hand down the front of my shirt.

“This is a keeper,” she says.

“You’re a keeper,” I say, touching her elbow.

Her lips slide across mine. “You are too.”

I admire her for a second longer. “All right, what’s next? Do I get a glass of scotch and a lesson in hedge fund lingo?”

“You get to try on the gray suit. And a tie.” She slaps my ass. “Go on, cowboy.”

Back in the fitting room, I swap into the charcoal gray suit, slim fit, just structured enough that I feel important. When I come out, Stormy’s already holding a pair of polished shoes and waiting for me like we’re preparing for a red-carpet moment and she’s my publicist.

“These,” she says, handing them to me.

I sit down to change, glancing up at her from the bench.

She exhales slowly, eyes on me the whole time. “You look so fucking good.”

“So do you, darlin’.”

She waggles her brows at me, and I’m tempted to lay her down on the leather couch.

Dominic enters. “Suggestions?”

“No, we’ll take it all. Add it to my account. Deliver everything to my penthouse at the Park,” Stormy tells him. “He’s wearing this out.”

Dominic doesn’t even blink. He just nods once and grabs the rest of the clothes like it’s routine for Stormy to waltz in, transform a man, and buy out the rack on her way out.

Stormy watches him go, then turns to me. “I love you.”

I brush my thumb against her cheek, stealing a kiss. “I love you, my little storm cloud.”

Her smile stretches wider. “Don’t be surprised if people track you down to put you on the cover of a magazine.”

“Honey, hush.”

“I’m serious,” she tells me. “You have the sex appeal, and because you’re with me, agents will call.”

I chuckle. “Thanks for the confidence boost, but I know this life isn’t for me.”

“It’s not for me either,” she admits. “Not anymore.”

I take her hand and interlock my fingers with hers. We walk out into the street, the wind sweeping past us in a sudden gust that lifts her hair. She’s the main character in a movie, and I’m walking beside her like I’m a part of her world.

“So,” I say, wrapping my arm around her, “what’s next? Gallery opening? Dinner with royalty?”

Stormy laughs under her breath. “How about a big, fat, juicy burger and fries? Then maybe a glass of wine somewhere quiet so we don’t get bombarded by paparazzi.”

I smirk. “Speakin’ my language, darlin’.”

We cross the street, her stride steady and self-assured, and her smile doesn’t falter.

And me?

I’m right where I want to be, at her side, like I belong.