Page 104 of Fixing to Be Mine

“More than that,” I say before I can stop myself. “Feels like a home.”

He wipes his hands on a nearby rag and nods once, almost to himself.

I press my back to the wall, needing something solid to lean on. “I’m leaving on Sunday.”

He studies me quietly, as if I stunned him. “Forever?”

Colt’s asking me if I’m about to walk out of his life after he opened every door for me.

I glance down at the hardwood floor, then back up. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, brief, but it’s so loud that I could scream.

“You can always come back to me,” Colt says. It’s a truth, not a plea. “You have a choice.”

I want to stay in this unfinished house with this man who kisses me like I’m the only thing he’s ever believed in. I can’t move forward until I face everything I ran from first.

“Would you ever consider moving to New York?” I ask.

Colt shakes his head. “No. My life and family are here.”

I walk toward him slowly, until I’m standing close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. I place my palm flat on his chest, over his heart.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, grabbing my hand. “I just don’t want this to be goodbye.”

“You once told me you don’t believe in goodbyes,” I say.

“I don’t,” he tells me, tucking hair behind my ear. “I refuse to believe this is the end, but I can’t leave and I don’t want you making sacrifices for me.”

Something heavier than lust and quieter than love passes between us.

It feels like a future. One we haven’t committed to yet, but somehow already have.

And just like this house, we still need work, but we’re building this relationship piece by piece until it’s complete.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

COLT

The afternoon settles quietly around us. Warm light filters through the windows, catching on floating dust and finished walls. Now that the walls are completed, we decided to do a deep clean of the first floor. Stormy works silently a few feet away, washing windows as if they had wronged her. I’ve got a shop vac, and I’m trying to get the sawdust from between the slats of the hardwood floor.

Stormy hasn’t said much since lunch. Not that we’re ever chatty when we’re both focused, but today feels different. It feels heavier, like whatever’s weighing on her has roots.

I glance over, pretending to look at the edges of the room, but really, I’m watching her shoulders. They’re drawn tight, like she’s holding something in. Stormy’s the kind of woman who’ll speak when she’s ready and not a second before. So, I wait for her.

The silence stretches between us, comfortable and not. She steps back from the window, eyes trailing the streaks, but then she focuses outside.

Then, like she’s trying the words on her tongue, she says, “No one’s ever truly wanted me before.”

I stop moving. Her voice is calm, like she’s explaining the weather, but it cracks at the edges, just enough to gut me.

“Not for who I am deep inside,” she adds, staring straight ahead. “No one has ever wanted this raw version of me.”

I straighten, turning off the vacuum, but I don’t speak.

“I’ve been loved for how I look. For my family name. For the image of me that fits into someone else’s life. But never … never just because I exist.”

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