Page 7 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

CHAPTER FIVE

SUNNY

I sit on the edge of his bed, one hand resting on the mattress, pressed into the quilt, and the other holding the bottle of whiskey. I drank too much, too fast, and my head is spinning, or maybe that’s the aftereffects of being around Colt.

The room smells like wood, fresh paint, and him. It’s warm in here, but that might be me. The ceiling fan hums, pushing the air around, but my body is still on fire. The heat feels like it’s coming from the inside out.

My hair is pulled into the same knot I twisted it into when I drove to Alpine this morning, searching for somewhere to stay.

It feels too tight, so I remove it and shake my hair out, releasing the tension from my scalp.

I should lie down or take a shower. I should do something, but I sit here, breathing in a space that doesn’t belong to me.

I think I’m shocked, which isn’t something that happens often. When I woke up this morning, the last location I thought I’d land was at Colt Valentine’s unfinished house. A laugh escapes me, and I shake my head, thinking I might be losing it.

As if in response to my thoughts, the house groans, like it has a mind of its own. It’s so quiet that my ears ring, and I’m not used to stillness like this. In the city, peace always feels borrowed, but here, it feels like it might last an eternity.

Nine days have passed since I left Manhattan with no more fucks to give.

I took my time driving across the United States, stopping at every roadside attraction that interested me, hoping to clear my mind.

I went shopping and bought new clothes and peeled off the engagement ring in a random parking lot.

No one is searching for me; I checked, using my new phone.

Due to my background and extensive media training, I know my family is currently in crisis mode, sweating and probably wondering why I left.

I didn’t have cold feet and had been sure of my decision.

I wanted to marry Donovan. Every person in my life knew that.

Donovan and Skye know what they did, but I’m willing to bet my inheritance that they’re pretending to be worried while fucking around.

I’m not sure what I’ll say when I face them again.

No amount of lying or gaslighting me will ever make me forget what I witnessed with my own fucking eyes.

That image has haunted me, given me night sweats, and woken me from a dead sleep more times than I’d like to admit.

I gave my sister everything. I dedicated most of my life to making sure she was safe and had someone watching out for her. And this is what she did to me?

I push the thoughts away, swigging back several more gulps of whiskey, wanting it to erase my memory. At least for tonight.

I think about the woman who runs the motel in town—Kathy, with a K , who had silver hair and wore tie-dye shirts every day. She gave me the boots and told me they were made for walking, then acted like she knew what had happened.

My thoughts are suffocating and overwhelming, so I stand with stiff legs that are slow to cooperate. The denim clings behind my sweaty knees as I walk across the room. I pull the bedroom door open and quietly step into the hallway.

The house is dim as darkness presses in from all sides. The sound of the fridge humming cuts through the silence as I tiptoe toward the living room. When I see him on the couch, I pause.

Colt has a muscular arm tucked behind his head, the other resting low across his stomach. He must be carved from stone because he’s solid like a statue. He’s all angles and heat, built like someone who uses his body, not poses with it. Men like him don’t exist in New York.

It’s something about the way he exists in this space—with his bare skin, work-worn muscles, and the faint line of a tan on his hips. Memorizing him like this feels too intimate for a man I recently met.

His face is relaxed, and my eyes slide over the scruff on his chin, over his perfect lips, and high cheekbones.

I should focus somewhere else, but I can’t.

It almost feels impossible as I watch him breathe, trying to remind myself that I’m not here for that.

Even if he’s attractive, sexy, flirty, and kind, I can’t get lost with this man, but I want to.

With every ounce of strength I have left, I pull my drunken gaze away from him and ease open the front door.

I slip into the late summer night, and the air hits me like a wall.

The breeze sticks to my skin and doesn’t let go.

Behind me, the screen door creaks closed, and I let out the breath I was holding since I saw him sitting on that porch swing.

I don’t know what I expected when I escaped to Texas, but it wasn’t Colt Valentine.

Gravel presses under my boots as I step off the porch. The Camaro sits under the porch light’s reach, coated in a film of dust from too many small towns and in-between gas stations. Seeing how filthy it is brings a spark of joy to my life. Donovan would lose his shit if he saw it now.

Good.

He should be glad I didn’t shift it into neutral and push it off a cliff before I came to Texas.

I open the trunk, and my duffel bag is right where I left it, along with a suitcase full of new clothes I bought.

My gorgeous wedding dress is crumpled and stuffed inside without care.

The satin heels, studded in diamonds, are thrown on top.

The dress waits for me like a reminder of how trust, love, and family mean nothing.

My stomach turns, and a rolling nausea rises like it’s trying to crawl up my throat.

That was the costume I was wearing when the curtain was pulled back on my life.

I still remember the sound of the zipper when I yanked it down and how I ripped the fabric, trying to wiggle out of it.

The silk felt like it was burning into my skin as I dragged it off in a blind, shaking rush in a random gas station.

I didn’t fold or hang it. I balled it up, threw it into the trunk, and slammed it shut, like that could erase everything.

Seeing the expensive, custom dress now feels like a punch.

The mess of white silk and beading is like a ghost, haunting me, and I stare at it like it might sit up and scream my secrets into the silence.

“Fuck you,” I whisper, pulling my luggage from the trunk, then pressing my palm flat against the cool metal of the car. The snap echoes into the darkness.

I turn around, looking up at the big open sky, seeing a sea of stars above. I’ve never seen so many at once, twinkling just for me. A star glitters across the sky, and I close my eyes to make a wish, then head inside.

I pull open the screen door, careful with the creaking hinges, and slip back inside. This time, I don’t focus on the couch. I can’t let this sexy Southern man with his sexy accent distract me.

With all my strength, I lift the wheels off the hardwood floor as I move down the hallway, so it doesn’t wake Colt.

It weirdly feels like I’ve done this a million times before.

I gently push open the bedroom door. Nothing has changed.

The same soft hum of the fan nudges the arm around the space, but it feels different, comfortable.

I open my suitcase and dig through the clothes I brought for this escape.

I’m unsure if I’m running from or toward something, but it feels like I’ve finally arrived.

At some point, I must’ve fallen asleep after staring at the ceiling.

Sunlight spills through the window in long golden rays. I blink hard; sleep still clings to me, but I haven’t felt more rested. It’s the first good night of sleep I’ve had since I left the city. I suck in a deep breath, wishing the elephant on my chest would leave.

I smell it first, and then I hear the sizzling of bacon, followed by the clinking of a pan and whistling. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, slow and stiff, like I’m stepping into a different world. The hem of the T-shirt I borrowed from his dresser brushes against my upper thighs.

I move down the hallway that opens into the large kitchen. I pause, my eyes sliding down his back, and I swallow hard at the muscles I nearly reached out and touched last night. Men like him should be illegal.

When he reaches for plates, I see he’s wearing black-framed glasses.

His hair is damp, curling at the ends. He smells like soap and cedar, clean and grounded and unfairly good.

He doesn’t see me right away, giving me a few seconds to watch him move comfortably in his space.

His biceps flex as he reaches for the salt.

“Wow,” I whisper, not realizing the word fell out of my mouth.

He glances at me over his shoulder. “Mornin’. How’d you sleep?”

It nearly unravels me when I see him so comfortably domestic.

“Great actually.” I move into the kitchen, closer to him, and have to keep myself from floating. “You cook?”

He shrugs. “I eat. Seemed like a logical skill to learn.”

It makes me laugh, something not many can do.

“Want some coffee?” he asks, nodding toward the maker on the counter. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the pot,” he tells me.

I graciously move forward and take his offer.

“Creamer in the fridge.”

“Thank you,” I say, pouring it into the mug. I immediately blow on it. “No cream. I like my coffee black.”

“Oh, so it’s like that?” he asks, his eyes lingering on my mouth.

“I guess it is,” I say.

“You know what they say about women who drink their coffee black.” He sets a paper towel on top of the plate and places bacon onto it.

“I don’t actually.” I take a sip, realizing how damn strong he made it.

“Means you’re trouble,” he says. “Will give a man a run for his money.”

“Or a run for the hills,” I mutter.

He chuckles, and I like the sound of it.

“How do ya like your eggs?”

I take another sip of coffee. “I’m not picky. Surprise me.”

His brow lifts. I have to force my eyes away from him as he cracks eggs into the pan like it’s second nature.

I drift toward the table, sliding into the nearest chair and pulling my knees up beneath the T-shirt.

The table’s old, worn smooth at the corners, with a thin crack running across the top, like it’s survived reconciliations and everything in between.

“Do you always do this?” I ask, watching the way he moves around without missing a beat.

“Cook?” he asks.

“Wake up with the sun and cook breakfast for strangers?”

His mouth twitches. “Only the ones who haven’t eaten a hot meal in over a day.”

“That’s not an answer,” I say.

“That’s not denial.” He flips the eggs, and a minute later, he’s sliding food in front of me with a fork. Seconds later, he’s delivering toast, butter, and grape jelly. “The answer is yes. I start my days early. I have a whole house to renovate. No time to be lazy.”

“You have work ethic. I like that.”

He looks like Clark fucking Kent, and I try my best not to stare.

“I think the longer you stay here, you’ll discover a lot more things about me that you like,” he says.

“Confident too,” I add as he makes his plate and joins me.

I pick up some bacon and take a bite. It’s crispy and smoky and exactly how I like it. “This is incredible.”

“I know,” he says. “Had you said it sucked, I’d have kicked you out.”

Laughter rolls out of me. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

He shoots me a wink. “I’d have considered it.”

This easygoing conversation knocks something loose in my heart, something that’s been held together by deflection and distance. I look away first.

“I appreciate all of this, but you don’t have to be nice to me,” I tell him.

He doesn’t rush to reply, and I brace for the awkwardness to thicken, but it doesn’t. He sits before me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m Southern,” he says, like that fact explains everything. And somehow, it does. “It’s what we do.”

“So, if anyone rolls up to your house and asks for a place to stay, your answer is yes because you’re Southern?” I question.

“Not exactly. I’m intrigued by you,” he admits. “I plan on figurin’ out why.”

I swallow hard. His admission makes my breath catch. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you, which is saying a lot.”

“Love to hear it, darlin’,” he tells me with a smirk, drinking his coffee. “You won’t ever meet anyone like me again.”

I take a bite of eggs, which are warm and salted perfectly. The bacon is crisp without being dry. The toast is golden at the edges, and I smear enough butter on it for it to taste like comfort. It’s not fancy, but somehow, it’s perfect.

He doesn’t fill the silence as he eats. He stays calm and collected, like there’s nothing strange about any of this, like I don’t intimidate him. Maybe if he knew who I was, that would be different, or it wouldn’t.

I chew slower than usual, trying not to devour it. After a few bites, I glance up and catch him watching me with a lazy grin, like he’s figuring me out, like I’m a puzzle.

He’s curious, but a little cautious.

“What are you thinking?” I ask directly.

His eyes drift, slow and deliberate, from my face to the hem of the oversize shirt resting high on my thigh, then back up to meet my gaze again.

“Thinkin’ about how my shirt looks good on you,” he says. It’s a truth he doesn’t need to dress up.

I freeze for half a second, my fork halfway to my mouth, then force a small smile. “Sorry. I grabbed my suitcase and realized my pajamas were in my duffel bag in the car.”

“Don’t mind. Whatever I have here that you need, it’s yours. Sharing is caring,” he says.

Suddenly, I don’t know what to do with how hot my skin feels beneath this fabric.

“I mean that,” he offers. “You’re my guest of honor.”

His words are simple, but they land heavy.

“Thank you,” I say, and we finish eating.

We steal glances across the table. I can’t deny the electricity humming under the surface, and I probably shouldn’t like having his attention as much as I do. When he glances at me wearing his T-shirt, I can’t help but wonder what else of his might look good on me.