Page 9 of Fixing to Be Mine

My heart does that flutter thing I haven’t felt in years.Fuck.

I glance at the rearview mirror, and there isn’t a single set of headlights for miles. It’s isolation that city dwellers like me aren’t used to, and it’s unnerving. I keep driving down the dirt road toward the man who looks like he belongs in a whiskey ad and has no business smiling that confidently or calling me darlin’ in that thick Southern drawl.

I’m thirty-four, bruised from a life I thought I’d figured out. He’s, what, in his mid-twenties? Is he even old enough to drink? He’s built like a sin, and he smiles like life’s still generous. That detail hit me the moment he looked at me. He’s too laid-back, too confident.Young.

The trees surround the road like they’re whispering to each other, and then it opens to nothingness. In the distance, I can see a porch light glowing, but nothing else. I roll my window down halfway to make sure the world still exists out here. It smells like cedar, dust, and something familiar I can’t quite name. It’s something I haven’t had in a long time—freedom.

“This feels right,” I say to no one, grabbing the steering wheel a little tighter, wishing I knew what this pull was, tugging me forward.

It’s so dark; I can see stars like I’ve never witnessed before, and a part of me wants to pull over, get out, and look up.

When I’m close to the house, it doesn’t give me that warm, welcome feeling that the B & B did. Still, it dares me like achallenge with a slanted roofline and chipped paint, standing strong, like it’s got something to prove. Charm might have lived here before, but it packed up long ago and left when hope did.

The wraparound porch is partially lit, casting long shadows across the yard, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel invited or warned. I cut the engine, and the silence swallows everything. There’s no city hum. No traffic or sirens or voices. Only the rapid pounding of my heart and a cricket or three.

I don’t move as I stare out the windshield. This house is big and broken and braver than it should be, but it’s still standing, kind of like me.

Looking over at the passenger seat, I glance at the paper with the B & B logo at the top. The ink’s smudged where I pressed too hard, folding it earlier. There’s a tiny, ridiculous smiley face at the end of the address.

Remi’s overly optimistic, or maybe she knows something I don’t. This could be a reckless decision, but one that I need.

The breeze shifts through the open window, carrying the scent of freshly cut wood and something male, like salt and smoke and earth, and then I see him.

He’s sitting shirtless on the porch swing with one hand resting on a whiskey bottle. The other is stretched out along the back of the swing, like he’s waiting for someone to join him. He’s silhouetted against the glow of the porch light, golden and lean, like he was cut out of stone. It’s almost like he’s part of the house, like he’s always been waiting right there for me to arrive.

He’s staring out into the dark like he’s lost in it, like nothing out there matters. And then, without warning, his eyes find mine. There’s a subtle flick of his gaze, but it pulls at me. Something shifts between us, and I can’t unfeel it once it settles.

He doesn’t stand or wave. He watches me from the swing like I’m a ghost or a stray dog or something else entirely. Hisexpression doesn’t give much away, but his jaw tics, and that’s enough.

I inhale and hold it, then shove open the door before I change my mind.

The gravel crunches under my boots as I step out into the spotlight. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the sweat at the base of my neck and the way my shirt clings to my skin. My hair’s a mess, and my makeup’s a memory.

I should say something, likehiorremember meorplease pretend not to notice I’m falling apart, but I don’t. Instead, I stand with my feet on the gravel as he watches me.

I glance at the porch swing, noticing how the old wood frame hardly sways from his weight. Something about the way he grips the bottle of whiskey makes me wonder if he’s spent the whole evening right here, completely comfortable in his skin.

I can’t relate because every part of me is stretched too tight. One more wrong word, one more closed door, and I might snap. I need a break from life.

“You lost, darlin’?” His voice is low and lazy, but it hits like a full-body jolt.

I don’t answer right away. Mostly because I don’t know how to respond. And also because my pride is somewhere under the driver’s seat, curled in the fetal position.

What am I even doing here?

I’ve known this man for two days, and now I’m standing on his land like I’ve lost my mind. I’m emotionally bankrupt, running on granola bars and spite, and this—this man is half reclined on a porch swing like a temptation. I don’t know whether to turn around and run or fall apart right here.

“I’m not sure yet.” My words are drier than I meant them to be. “You tell me.” I swallow hard and square my shoulders.

It’s not a greeting, but it’s enough. I walk up the steps to get closer to him before I change my mind.

The porch groans under my boots like the wood is judging me. Upon closer inspection of him, I realize how muscular he is, how broad his shoulders are, and how absolutely no part of this was a good idea.

Still, I keep going, studying the tattoo on his chest. It’s a cattle brand—his family brand if I had to guess. He doesn’t move, just tracks my every step like he’s trying to understand what the fuck I’m doing here. But also, I’m asking myself the same question.

I stop a few feet away from him.

“Hot damn, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “You’re not the person I planned to see tonight.”

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