Page 136 of Fixing to Be Mine

Proof dreams do come true.

I move quietly through the house, barefoot on wood floors that creak in familiar places. The morning is cool.

In the kitchen, I grind the beans she likes and fill the pot. I know how she takes her coffee now—dark roast only. I pull our two mugs from the cabinet and smile at the chipped one.

The drip of the coffee maker and the rustle of birds starting up outside the window keep my attention. I crack the door open to let in some air and welcome the promise of another day ahead with my girl.

I lean against the counter and stare out the window. The pasture’s quiet. Fence line still holding. No wind yet. I’ll need to feed the horses soon.

The only thing that pulls me away are her soft, unhurried footsteps.

I turn just as she walks into the kitchen. She’s wearing my old T-shirt and nothing else. Her hair is still a mess from sleep.

She sees the mug waiting on the counter and gives me a look. “I can’t believe you always wake up this early without an alarm.”

“Some things are just ingrained in you.” I chuckle. “But I’m always excited to start a new day with you.”

She crosses the kitchen and steps up on her tiptoes to kiss me.

“Good morning,” she whispers.

We’re not in a rush to be anything but here. Her hand brushes the side of my face before she pulls back.

“Good morning, my love.”

I fill her mug full, and she grabs it, cradling it in both hands.

As she watches me pour mine, she blows lightly on the surface of her coffee. Her eyes sweep the kitchen like she’s checking to make sure it’s all still real.

Today is different. It’s the first morning that feels like ours.

I glance at the clock, not because we have anywhere to be, but because my body’s still used to measuring mornings by when she was leaving. Not anymore.

Stormy leans against the counter, one hip cocked, the hem of my old T-shirt grazing her bare thigh.

“I don’t want to waste this,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Coffee?”

She gives me a small smile. “No. This feeling. This … clarity.”

She’s quiet for a second. When she does speak again, her voice is more certain than I expected. I take a slow sip of coffee.

She looks up at me, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression. “I want to build something that’s mine here in Valentine. Lay some real roots.”

“Love that idea. I support any of your dreams.” I set my mug down and close the space between us. “What do you want to do?”

She tilts her head. “Paint.”

“Really? Are you an artist?”

She laughs, and the sound settles something in me. “No. But maybe one day, I will be. Valentine could use an art gallery,” she says, voice soft but sure.

“Yes, ma’am. Can always use some fine arts around here,” I say. “Takes some logistics and cash.”

“I have plenty of money.”

“Don’t want you for your dollars, darlin’. I’ve got plenty of money from my rental properties and from flipping houses through my twenties.”

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