Page 99 of Fixing to Be Mine

She doesn’t turn around and stares into the framed rooms with thoughtful eyes.

“I’ve never let myself picture it,” she says softly. “Not really. A house. A life. The noise.”

“You should,” I say, smiling. “Kinsley calls it manifesting.”

I don’t say anything else. I let her stand in the space that will one day be something I only imagined, just like her.

Stormy steps deeper into one of the unfinished rooms. Her fingers graze the edge of a stud where the drywall hasn’t been installed yet, tracing the grain of the wood.

I lean against the doorframe and watch her.

“This one. I always figured it’d be a nursery first,” I explain.

She turns slightly, not speaking, but her hand pauses against the beam.

“Crib near the window,” I add, quieter now. “Rocking chair in the corner. Maybe a bookshelf and a nice lamp.”

Stormy swallows. “You have it all planned out?”

“Only in my mind.” I run a hand along the back of my neck. “Didn’t know who I was building it for. But I knew I wanted to be ready when she showed up.”

“Colt,” she says, almost like a warning.

“I’m not saying this is a pitch,” I explain. “I won’t ask you to stay. I want you to know—this house, this life—I built it to be shared with someone like you. Whether it’s now or five years from now … I’ll wait for you.”

She crosses the room to me, barefoot on the plywood, moving slowly until she’s standing right in front of me. Her gaze searches mine. “I don’t want you to stop your life because of me.”

“Stop my life? You jump-started it.”

She leans forward and presses her forehead to my chest. I wrap my arms around her and hold her there, breathing in the scent of paint, sun-warmed skin, and something that feels dangerously close to hope.

We don’t speak for a while.

“I hope your dreams come true,” she finally says.

“They will.”

We head back downstairs, the air much cooler on the first floor. Stormy’s quiet beside me, not withdrawn, just deep in thought. When she gets like this, I like to leave her along to work through her thoughts.

“I think we were cleaning up,” she says, voice casual, but not light.

I nod, grabbing the roller I left leaning against the wall. “Perfect. Looks incredible in here. Thank you.”

I slide my lips across hers, and she grabs my T-shirt, holding me tight.

We’ve barely pulled apart when the knock comes on the front door.

It’s quick two pounds, then a turning of a knob. I make my way to the hallway, wondering who has the fucking balls to let themselves into my house. Whoever it is doesn’t believe in asking for permission.

The door creaks open, and a familiar voice calls out, “Please tell me you’re decent.”

I step into the hallway, and Remi’s standing in the entryway, her hair in a low bun, sunglasses on her head. She’s holding a gallon of lemonade.

Stormy follows me into the entryway, her cheeks a little pink, arms speckled with yellow paint.

Remi takes one glance at the two of us and smirks like she already knows more than she should.

“Wow,” she says. “I didn’t expect HGTV and foreplay, but I love a good renovation love story.”

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