Page 122 of Fixing to Be Mine

Stormy leans in and presses her mouth against mine. I kiss her back, one hand brushing her jaw. There’s no need to say anything else; it’s already been said.

When we pull apart, her forehead rests against mine. Her eyes stay closed.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I tell her. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

I mean it, and she knows I do.

After a while, she steps back from me and lets her fingers trail down the front of my shirt. “I’m hungry. We should get some food.”

I nod once. “Lead the way, darlin’.”

She glances back at me, one brow slightly raised. “You sure you’re up for this? We might get followed.”

I steal another kiss, and she melts into me.

“I flew across the country to be by your side. I think I can handle a walk through the city. Should I change clothes?”

Her lips quirk up like she’s trying not to smile. “Only if you want. I don’t care what you wear.”

“I know. But like you wanted to be a cowboy princess at the rodeo, I want to fit in your world too. It would make me feel more comfortable with so many pictures being taken. Worse than my damn grandma.”

“We’ll stop at one of my favorite boutiques before we eat.”

We escape from the building by taking a back entrance. Her hand is tucked in mine, and a smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

She leads me down a quiet block lined with boutiques that only those from a particular social class shop at. The storefront she leads me into looks like a museum. It has no name, no hours, and zero price tags. A man in a sleek gray suit greets her like she’s royalty returning from exile.

“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.

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