Page 6 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

CHAPTER FOUR

COLT

S he says she’s in, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

Not because she said yes, but because of how she said it, like it was the only possible answer.

It wasn’t a surrender or a decision made from desperation, but rather a personal challenge.

Her voice carried grit, like someone who’d been clinging to the edge too long and finally found a branch.

Sunny steps forward, and she’s so damn close that I can smell her shampoo.

I glance down into her green eyes, and before I can say anything, she reaches for the whiskey that’s still grasped in my hand.

She doesn’t ask, doesn’t pause, but wraps her fingers around the neck of the bottle, lifts it to her plump lips, and takes a long, unbothered drink.

The sharp oak and fire always hit the hardest at first, but she takes it like a champ without wincing.

This brand of whiskey burns its way down and stays in your belly awhile.

She gulps it down like she wants it to hurt, or she needs it to hush whatever’s screaming inside that pretty little head of hers.

The way she grabbed that bottle said what she wouldn’t.

I don’t know her, but I know she’s not fine, even if she’s still standing.

It was easy for her to reach for something that wasn’t hers, and it makes me want to give her everything she’s ever wanted.

The hallway is silent, except for the faint creak of the old floor beneath her boots and the distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

I can’t stop watching her or admiring how damn pretty she is as she takes a breath, then goes in for round two.

She drinks like something inside her is unraveling and the liquid fire will keep it together.

When she hands the bottle back, our fingers brush together for a second too long.

Fuck. It’s almost too much.

I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing.

The heat of her clings to my skin like the summer sun.

She’s suddenly everywhere all at once as her eyes slide down to my lips and my chest. For once, I’m glad I didn’t bother putting a shirt back on when I got out of the shower.

She looks back up at me with those sparkling green eyes, and I take a step away from her before I do something stupid, like slide my lips across hers.

It’s so fucking tempting as the electricity swarms between us.

A blush hits her cheeks, and she tucks her bottom lip into her mouth, like she wants the same thing.

“I think I needed that drink,” she tells me, the smoky whiskey already on her breath.

Whatever’s got her running is braided with pride because she’s not in distress from what I can tell.

I think that’s what gets me most about her.

It’s obvious this woman isn’t looking for someone to rescue her.

Nah, I think she’s more than capable of saving herself, which is why she’s here.

But I do believe she’s trying to land somewhere without falling apart.

“Did someone hurt you?” I ask. My voice is soft, but my jaw clenches tight.

“Not physically. I’ll live. I’m pissed,” she says, nostrils flaring, and I immediately know she’s dealing with heartbreak.

I push the bottle back toward her. “Pissed I can deal with. Glad I’m not going to have to track a motherfucker down.”

Her brows pop upward. “You would?”

“Without a doubt,” I tell her.

“You’re something else.” She chuckles and takes another swig before letting out a hot breath.

I can’t believe this woman, who’s been on my mind for two days, is standing in my hallway, drinking my whiskey.

“Apologies. I’ve had too much to drink tonight,” I tell her. “Right now, I’m wondering if this is really happening.”

She reaches forward and pokes my stomach. “Yep. It’s real.”

“This is a very unexpected turn of events,” I mutter.

“I agree,” she says.

I clear my throat, trying to shake whatever the hell that was. I’m under her spell.

“This way,” I say, nodding toward my bedroom.

She follows, her boots scuffing softly over the worn wood. I walk a few steps ahead, but I can feel her behind me, probably eye-fucking me again. The thought makes me more aware of my breathing or the way I carry myself.

The house is halfway decent, depending on the room.

Now that she’s here, I wish I’d cleaned up more or finished painting the trim.

Hell, I wish I had a finished house that would impress her.

I don’t know what to do with that thought.

I stop at the last door on the right and push it open. The hinges groan in protest.

“This is the only fully finished area in the house other than the kitchen. Sheets are clean, and the bathroom is right across the hall.”

She steps inside, her eyes scanning the simple space.

There are no frills. Just a solid bed, a dresser, a full-length mirror, and a window that looks out over the barn with a sheer curtain because I like to wake up to the sunrise.

I cleared my tools and work gear out earlier this week, and it still smells like fresh paint.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, as I watch her.

“If you need more towels, there are extras in the linen closet. Water’s hot, but you’ve gotta let it run for a minute, or it will burn the fuck outta you.

And this is country livin’, so sometimes, you’ve gotta hold the toilet handle down a little longer than you’d think. ”

I notice a flicker of something behind her eyes, like a smile she’s not quite ready to share.

Sunny steps further inside and sets her hand lightly on the footboard, like she’s bracing herself more than leaning.

Her hand trails along the edge of the wood like she’s memorizing it.

Her eyes skim across the dresser, the small window, the lamp on the nightstand.

She turns to face me. “Where will you sleep?” The question isn’t sharp or demanding.

“The couch. I’ve slept there plenty of times before.”

Her expression is unreadable, but her shoulders aren’t as stiff as they were when she walked in.

“That’s not fair,” she says after a second. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Absolutely not.” I let out a soft breath, more amused than anything. “Life isn’t fair. Besides, the couch is comfortable.”

She raises an eyebrow, like she’s not sure if I’m lying.

“I’m not just sayin’ that. It’s better than most of the places I crashed in my early twenties,” I add, shrugging.

Her brow lifts. “What? Like last year?”

A low rumble releases from me—unexpected and rough, like I forgot I had laughter left. “I’m in my late twenties, thank you very fuckin’ much.”

She chuckles.

I glance toward the front of the house, then back at her. “You got bags in your car? I can grab ’em for you.”

Her posture straightens a little too fast. It’s not panic, but it’s a reaction that makes a man instinctively take a step back. Her fingers twitch. Her throat works around a breath she doesn’t take.

“I’ve got it,” she says quickly. “I can get them. You’ve already done enough.”

It comes out too practiced, like she’s used to fixing discomfort before it shows. She acts like accepting help feels more dangerous than doing it alone.

“You have a body stuffed in your trunk or something?”

She playfully rolls her eyes. “Not that I know of.”

“Listen, I’m a fixer, babe. Doin’ things for others and listening are my love language, so if you’re staying for a while, which you are, you’re gonna have to start gettin’ used to that.”

“Thank you. However, I find it very hard to accept anything from people without an exchange. It’s not a behavior I’m accustomed to. Truthfully, my trunk is a mess, and I’d prefer to grab my shit myself.”

“Okay, I can respect an independent woman,” I tell her.

“Thank you.”

For some reason, I want to reach for her, but I don’t. It’s too soon for that, so I nod instead. “I’ll keep the porch light on for ya. Take your time. Door stays unlocked.”

“Unlocked?” she questions, almost alarmed. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“In the middle of nowhere?” I look at her like she’s grown a third head. “Trust me, sweetheart. No one in their right mind would turn down this road in the middle of the night. Except you.”

“You’re damn right about that.” She exhales, and her shoulders ease further.

“I’m real glad you’re here,” I tell her. “Haven’t been able to get you off my mind since we met.”

She chews on her lip and glances away from me, which only makes me smile. I’m under her skin, and, fuck, she’s buried under mine too.

“Do you always act like this?”

“I’m not afraid to say what I mean. So, if that’s what you’re referring to, yeah. This is it. I’m no bullshit.”

“I like that,” she offers.

“Good.” It feels like time freezes between us. “Well, if ya need anything, I’ll be in the living room, tryin’ to sleep off the quarter bottle of whiskey I drank this evening.”

“Sweet dreams,” she says.

“Ah, currently livin’ the dream, babe. Don’t wake me,” I offer with a smirk, backing out of the doorway.

I give her a final glance, but I don’t let it linger as I pull the door behind me.

I leave it cracked, not because she asked, but because I know what it’s like to need a door left open and how it feels when it’s closed.

The smile that fills my face as I move to the living room feels permanent, and I’m so damn glad I finished putting the walls up the past two days.

I look at the couch, and it honestly isn’t bad.

Hell, I’ve slept on it dozens of times after long days in the barn or late nights, watching old Westerns.

I sit on it with a grunt, lean forward, elbows on my knees, and glance toward the hallway.

Tonight, the cushions feel stiffer, like they are jealous and know they weren’t my first choice.

At this angle, I have the perfect view of the door to my room.

I run a hand over my jaw, realizing I need to clean up this scruff, and I wonder if she’s still drinking my whiskey. The bottle isn’t full, but it’s not empty either. It’s like everything else in this house—halfway to something better when I get around to finishing it.

Sunny caught me off guard tonight. Not by randomly showing up because that happens all the time around here—family dropping by unannounced, townsfolk who can’t mind their business if you paid ’em.

But her arrival was different, it was full of intent, like she couldn’t stay away from me either, like there was some invisible lasso pulling us together.

I don’t know her, not really. Not yet. But my name on her lips hit like something personal, like she was searching for me with purpose. I’ve been thinking about her since the moment our eyes met.

I ease deeper into the worn cushions, and they creak beneath me as I lie back, pulling the quilt off the back.

The whiskey starts to hit hard, and the buzz takes over.

I look past the fireplace I haven’t finished, toward the hallway, where a thin slice of light continues to spill from the bedroom I gave away tonight.

I close my eyes, hoping sleep takes me under because thoughts of her swirl in my head.

I didn’t let her stay just because I was a good man. Something about her told me she needed this place more than I did.

The house is quiet now, like the calm before the storm. This woman doesn’t owe me her story, but I want to be part of it. In a way, I already am.

She thinks I gave her shelter. Turns out, I opened the door and walked straight into the storm, and the scariest part is, some reckless piece of me doesn’t want to run. Nah, I want to ride this out with her and see what happens.