Page 5 of Fixing to Be Mine

“I don’t believe in goodbyes, darlin’.”

“Southerners,” she mutters and rolls the window up, giving me a cocky smile before backing out of the driveway.

Dust kicks up and leaves something heavy in her wake. I stand there, arms crossed, grinning like a fool in love.

From behind me, the front door creaks open.

“Ahem,” my sister grumbles. “Are you okay?”

“I think I just met my wife,” I tell her, still watching the road with my hand held over my heart.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You might eat them words when I marry that woman,” I say, returning to the porch with a pep to my step.

Remi stands tall like a damn security guard, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—classic twin-sister mode. She’s got that stubborn Valentine woman stance locked and loaded, and I already know I’m not winning whatever argument is about to start.

“Oh, so I’m not invited back inside to finish my coffee?”

“Nah,” she says, shaking her head like I’ve officially lost my mind.

I stare at her for a beat, then glance back at the empty stretch of road Sunny disappeared down. There’s a hitch in my chest I don’t know what to do with.

“You have the haunted house you’ve been renovating. Let her stay there.”

“I live there,” I tell her, like she doesn’t already know that.

She blinks. “Maybe it’s time you got a roommate. Company would be good for you.”

I raise a brow. “That’s ridiculous. Who in their right mind would want to stay there?”

“You.” She shrugs casually. “You’re such a chicken. She didn’t seem like she was that into you anyway. And I know for a fact that she won’t find anything else in Valentine ’cause I’ve looked. Now, you need to run along. I’m gonna have a quiet breakfast with my hubby. If you don’t mind.”

I glance behind her, at the life she’s building that somehow came together like it was meant to. For half a second, I wonder if I’ll ever have that too.

“Fine. Don’t be late for dinner on Thursday,” I mutter, stepping off the porch, keys spinning around my finger like I’ve still got control of this situation.

“Text her,” she calls out, slamming the door before I can shoot back a word.

As I walk to my truck, I stare at the paper still in my grasp.

Sunny.

Even her handwriting is pretty. My fingers curl around the flyer like it might burn me if I’m not careful. I shove it in the glove box and then continue to the grocery store to grab food for the week. As I push the buggy down each aisle, my boots shuffle across the floor, and I think about running into her again. The thought of her has me so damn distracted that I don’t even remember checking out.

Once I’m home, I kill the engine and sit for a second in the quiet.

The two-story farmhouse stares back at me. It looks worn down, chipped, and tired, but I see what it’s gonna be. It was built in the 1800s and has a wraparound porch and sits on ten acres of land that feels like peace, no matter the time of day. She was abandoned back in ’95, but her bones are solid. These walls hold stories, and it’s my only project right now.

The work that I need to put into making her perfect doesn’t scare me. If anything, it’s my own personal challenge. It’s a task half the town doesn’t believe is possible. Basically, I’ve got a lotta shit to prove. She might look like a dump now, but one day, it will be the best-looking thang in a two-hundred-mile radius.

One of my best qualities is that I can see potential in things.

I step onto the porch, the boards creaking, as the plastic grocery bags dig into my wrists and hands. Mid-morning sunlight hits the old wood, catching on every nail I’ve reset and every rotten board I’ve replaced. Things are changing around here, but not fast enough for my liking.

Once inside, I walk down the wide hallway toward the large kitchen that overlooks the old barn I recently rebuilt. I catch a glance of my horses grazing and smile as I set the bags down on the breakfast nook. It takes me no time to put the groceries away.

After a deep breath, I grab the whiskey bottle from the cabinet. I know it’s nearly ten in the morning, but a few sips never hurt the creative process. I crank up the old country playlist I keep cued up for long workdays. I scan my to-do list scribbled across the whiteboard on my fridge. It’s my own personal roadmap, and I take it one task at a time, only wishing I had an extra set of hands to help.

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