Page 8 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

CHAPTER SIX

COLT

“ T hanks for everything,” she says, setting her fork on top of her empty plate.

She didn’t leave a single crumb behind, and, hell, I love to see it.

“You’re welcome,” I say, meaning every damn word.

I noticed how she took her time with each bite, like it had been a while since someone had fed her a home-cooked meal. That alone is enough to make me want to prepare breakfast for her from now on.

The old, mismatched chair lets out a familiar creak as she stands, but it’s the absence of her across from me that hits louder. She picks up her plate like she’s still finding her footing in this place.

“You can leave it in the sink. I’ll take care of it when I’m done.”

“Sure. I’m gonna change clothes,” she says over her shoulder. “Anything specific I need to wear to be your handy-helper today?”

I smirk—can’t help it. Handy-helper. I like the way that sounds. “Something comfortable, but not too loose. Something you’re not afraid to sweat in or get paint on.”

She grins. “Perfect. Meet you in ten.”

And then she’s gone, disappearing down the hallway like she’s on a mission.

There’s a new energy to her—lighter, sharper, like she’s ready to throw herself into work if it means keeping her mind from going too quiet.

I know that feeling better than I probably should, which is why I think her helping me may help her.

I’ve got five rental properties scattered across this county and a garage full of tools.

I’ve always used work to push through the thoughts I couldn’t sit still with.

Every house I’ve worked on has some memory packed into the drywall and floorboards.

The only difference with this old house is, it’s got a beautiful woman in it.

Once I finish the last bite of my toast, I rinse both plates, letting the motion settle me. She wore my shirt like it belonged to her and sat at my table like it was always her seat. And for some reason I can’t explain, it felt right. Too right.

I slide the dishes into the washer and wipe my hands on a towel. Then I grab my coffee and head down the hall toward the living room. The floors creak under my boots like they’re just as uncertain about where this thing with her is heading.

I’ve got at least a dozen things I could knock off my to-do list, but today, my focus is drywall. I want to get the hallway done. It’s a simple task. Or at least it was, until I hear footsteps behind me.

She doesn’t announce herself and enters like she’s done it every morning of her life. Hair twisted up in that messy, loose knot, pink tank top hugging her curves, legs bare, and blue jean cutoffs that should be illegal this early in the day.

“Reporting for duty,” she says, meeting my eyes with that look that says she’s not afraid of a challenge.

I hand her the tape measure. “Hold this.”

She grabs the end, and I stretch it to the edge of the hallway closet, watching the numbers roll out between us.

“Eighteen feet,” I call out, then double-check my reading to be sure. “That’s four and a half panels, plus two and a half. So, seven.”

I walk the tape back to her, our fingers brushing as I take it from her hand.

“You ever worked with drywall?” I ask, more curious than anything.

She lets out a low laugh and steps closer. “Hate to admit that this is a first for me.”

Her eyes flick down to my mouth before they climb their way back up.

“Mmm.” I offer her a soft smile. “Guess I’ve got a few things to teach you.”

She’s sizing me up, and I swear the air between us gets warmer.

We make our way to the front room, where I keep my tools and supplies tucked out of the way.

I flip a full sheet of drywall onto the sawhorses, and she watches me like she’s trying not to get caught.

With her arms crossed, she tugs her lips upward, like she’s holding back a grin she doesn’t want me to see.

“All right,” I say, slapping the panel once with my palm. “You’re very distracting.”

She raises a brow. “Speak for yourself.”

God help me.

“Come closer,” I say, grabbing the T-square and lining it up along the edge as she moves beside me. I can feel the warmth of her skin radiating from her. “First rule of drywall. Straight lines only. One cut. Mess it up, and you’ve wasted time, patience, and a perfectly good sheet.”

Her arm brushes mine. “So, you’re saying, precision is sexy.”

“Confidence is too.” I pass her the pencil, letting my fingers trail against hers. “Mark it at twenty-four inches. We’re cutting a two-foot strip.”

She stays planted beside me for a breath too long. Sunny is close enough to scramble every useful thought in my head as she leans in and draws the line. Her scent clouding my focus.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Mmhmm.”

I move in behind her, reaching around to hand her the utility knife. Her fingers wrap around the handle as I press the T-square firmly in place.

“Keep the blade tight against the square,” I say, lowering my voice. “Only cut the paper. Keep it straight. Go slow.”

“Got it,” she says, though her voice has lost a little of its edge. It’s softer now and a little breathy.

She leans in to make the cut, and I watch every second. Her shoulder brushes my chest, and she doesn’t move away.

With one clean pass, the paper splits with ease.

“You’re a natural,” I offer.

She straightens, holding my gaze a beat too long before passing the knife back. I score the opposite side and snap the panel. It breaks clean.

“Wow, that’s a good cut,” she says, sounding impressed.

I dust off my hands and nod toward the stack. “We’ll carry four of those to the hallway. Then this one.”

I hand her the two-foot strip, letting our hands meet in the middle. She takes it without hesitation.

“This is fun,” she says.

“Ah, you say that now.”

Working beside her like this is dangerous. I came into this, thinking I’d teach her a few things. Turns out, I’m the one getting schooled.

We knock out hanging the wall in the hallway in an hour.

Her focus is steady, her pace sharp. We move in sync without needing to talk much and roll straight through to finish in the living room.

Three hours in, I set the drill down and roll my shoulders.

We’re making great time. We continue into the dining room and the library.

“Let’s take a water break,” I tell her, leading us into the kitchen. I add ice to two glasses and get filtered water from the door of the fridge. We drink it down. “I can’t believe how much we got done.”

“I know. I’m having fun though. Thank you for allowing me to help.”

“Happy you’re here. Truly. Now, you ready to get your hands dirty?” I ask.

Sunny finishes her water and sets the glass in the sink, then follows behind me. “I thought I already did.”

“Not even close,” I say, grabbing the joint compound and popping the lid off with the end of a putty knife. “You haven’t even seen dirty yet.”

“Yeah?” She raises a brow like that’s a challenge. “Will you show me?”

“Oh, darlin’,” I say, scooping out a thick glob and slapping it on the seam. “Promise me you’ll try to keep it on the wall.”

“I think I can manage.”

She grins and takes the second putty knife I offer her.

“Okay,” I say, motioning toward the seam. “Feather it out. Press hard in the middle, ease up at the sides. Don’t overthink it.”

“I never overthink anything,” she says, straight-faced.

I snort. “Right. And I’m a ballerina.”

“A cowboy ballerina,” she mutters, scooping a bit too much compound and slapping it onto the wall. It plops thick, but she smooths it out, biting her lip as she works.

Damn, if that doesn’t make me forget what I was doing, I don’t know what else will.

“Pretty good,” I say.

She glances over at me. “You sound surprised.”

“Nah. I’m impressed.” I narrow my eyes. “You sure you’re not a secret house flipper?”

Right as I reach to guide her hand, her knife jerks sideways and sends a blob of mud flying, landing square on my cock.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, glancing down at my putty-covered crotch.

“You did that on purpose,” I say, looking down at the splatter.

She lifts her hand. “No! I swear!”

I shift my gaze to her. “Ya sure about that? They say look where you want to aim.”

She creates space between us, laughing. “It was an accident!”

I dip my knife into the bucket, giving her a look.

“No,” she says, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare.”

“I told you this gets messy.”

“Colt.”

“Sorry, darlin’. You brought this on yourself. What’s fair is fair.”

She squeals and dodges, but I swipe a line of compound across her arm before she gets away. She stares at it, eyes narrowing, then lifts her chin like she’s about to charge.

She lunges toward me, bright laughter spilling from her. I catch her by the waist before she gets too far. My grip locks firm as I spin her around, pinning her gently against the unfinished wall. Her hands land on my shoulders, and she’s breathing harder now.

There’s compound on her cheek, dust smudged across her tank top, and when I glance down into her pretty green eyes, I forget about the drywall, the house, or that we’re strangers.

“You look good, covered in my mess,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her breath hitches, but her hands don’t fall away. The laughter fades enough for the tension to take its place. I don’t pull back as her lips part. I don’t think I can.

“I bet you say that to all your handy-helpers,” she whispers.

“Only the ones I don’t want to let go of.”

We let the electricity buzz, the moment stretching between us. It’s full of desire and excitement, the mutual attraction almost too much to handle.

She chews on her bottom lip, almost as if she’s daring me to kiss her, but I take a step away, creating much-needed space. I don’t want to rush whatever this is.

“We should probably finish up here, then call it a day. We can start painting tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” she says, and I notice the chill bumps creeping across her arms.