Page 134 of Fixing to Be Mine

The rest of the drive slips by quietly.

We take the back roads; the driver swears they’re faster. I rest my hand on his, and neither of us says anything until the turnoff to the house comes into view.

The gravel crunches under the tires as the SUV rolls to a stop. We get out, and Colt grabs our bags. Soon, we’re left standing in front of the half-finished house beside a Camaro I destroyed with my bare hands.

“I missed this place,” I tell him.

“We’re back,” Colt says, but it’s quiet, like he’s talking to himself more than me.

We pause at the top of the porch without meaning to. Just … stop. Standing side by side, our hands still joined.

The sky above is dark now, but the stars are out—clearer here than they ever are over Manhattan. I tilt my head and look up. For a second, I let myself just breathe it in.

This place. This life. This version of me.

Colt speaks beside me. “You ready to go in?”

“Yeah,” I say, the smile already blooming. “Home sweet home.”

When I cross that threshold, everything inside me exhales.

The door clicks shut, and I stand inside the entryway, taking it all in. I can’t help but smile.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“A little. Not for anything big.”

“Grilled cheese work?”

I smile. “Perfect.”

He grabs my hand and leads me to the kitchen. I sit at the table, watching him work around the kitchen. He opens the fridge, reaches for butter, and flips the burner on without checking the dial.

“The only thing that would make this better is if you were shirtless,” I tell him.

As if I snapped my fingers, he peels his shirt from his body. “For your watching pleasure.”

I lean my elbows on the table, chin resting in my palm, watching the muscles in his back shift as he grabs a skillet. “You gonna make me a sandwichandgive me a show?”

He glances over his shoulder. “Multitasking, darlin’. It’s one of my many cowboy skills.”

“Oh, yeah?” I smirk. “What else you got in your bag of tricks?”

He turns just enough to flash me a look over his bare shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”

A minute later, the smell shifts—less buttered toast, more singed edges.

“Colt …” I warn.

“Shit.” He flips the sandwich too late and winces. “Still edible.”

“Let me guess. Another one of your cowboy skills?”

“Making things work, even when they’re a little burned? Absolutely.”

We eat in the kitchen for a bit, then relocate to the living room, plates still in hand. The two of us sit cross-legged on thecouch, plates balanced in our laps, the sandwich cut diagonally, how I like. I take a bite, still warm in the center, and nod with approval.

“Best grilled cheese of my life,” I say.

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