Page 46 of Fixing to Be Mine

I playfully roll my eyes, but the truth is, I was. I crawl under the covers and turn on the bedside lamp. “You’re not used to chasing someone, are you?”

“No,” he admits. “I’ve never had to work for it. Truthfully? I love it.”

He climbs into bed and gives me space without feeling too distant. We lie there in the dark, not touching, not talking. Just breathing in the same rhythm.

“Good night,” he says.

I move closer to him, and he wraps me in his arms. For the first time since I left New York, I don’t want to run anymore. But based on the headlines, my past might catch up to me.

The sunlight filters in,and I blink against it, finding myself already smiling, even before I open my eyes fully.

Colt is still asleep. One arm is tossed behind his head on the pillow, the other resting across his stomach. The sheet is low on his hips, and the sight of him, bare-chested, stubbled, almost makes me forget this is only temporary.

Almost.

I slide out of bed carefully and pad barefoot into the kitchen. He joins me a few minutes later, wearing a worn gray T-shirt and jeans, like sin disguised as simplicity. His hair is still sleep-ruffled, and he smells like soap and cedar and everything tempting. He’s not wearing his glasses today.

“Morning,” he says, grabbing a mug from the cabinet.

I nod, already sipping from mine. “How do you look that good without trying?”

He grins. “It’s a burden. Always has been.”

“Not for me,” I mutter. “More like a treat.”

He’s too smug and too hot and far too comfortable in this house, in this kitchen, with me standing so close.

“You ready to run into town with me?” he asks, sipping his coffee.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope. It’ll be good for ya,” he offers. “Change of scenery.”

After I’m dressed, I follow him out to the truck. The morning air is already warming up. It’s a comfortable heat that wraps around you rather than beating you down. It smells like fresh grass and something sweet, like flowers.

Colt tosses a few bags into the bed of the truck before circling to open the passenger door for me. It’s unnecessary and charming, which describes him far too well.

Once we’re on the road, he drives with the windows down and one hand on the wheel, the other in the breeze. Every time he turns the wheel, his forearm flexes enough to make me forget what day it is. He hums along to a country song playing low on the radio, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in a rhythm that feels carefree. I steal a glance at him when he smiles, and something about it lands too deep in my heart, too fast. He looks like a man who’s never had to second-guess whether he belongs somewhere.

The wind lifts strands of my hair across my cheek, and I close my eyes for a second, letting the sunlight kiss my skin. It’s warm, and I feel alive. This is the closest thing I’ve ever had to true freedom.

It will eventually come to an end, and I try to remind myself of that. But sitting here, in his truck, in this tiny town, with nowhere to be and everything to feel—it makes me want to believe things could be different. That could be true if I were someone different. But I’m not.

We head down Main Street, and he pulls the truck into the gravel road of the feed store.

Colt’s practically a local celebrity in boots and a ball cap, speaking to every third person we pass. Before we even make it inside, an older gentleman stops him to chat about his house.

“The rumor is that old place is haunted. You think it is?”

“No, sir,” Colt tells him with a chuckle. “Only thing hauntin’ those walls are me and my music.”

“Tell your daddy I said hello,” the guy says with a wave. He gives me a nod, then heads to his truck.

Colt opens the door for me, and we walk inside.

Everyone knows him by name. But today, they look at me too. Not in a judgmental way or with surprise, but rather curiosity—like they’ve already heard the story of me and they’re now seeing how it plays out in real time.

The woman behind the counter glances at our hands like she expects them to be linked. I keep mine at my side, but the air between us feels warmer than it should. I can read it on every person’s face—they all believe we’re a couple.

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