Page 48 of Fixing to Be Mine

“About how this place feels like home.”

Colt doesn’t say anything. His hand squeezes mine, but I don’t pull away. I just smile.

CHAPTER TWELVE

COLT

Another day of working beside Sunny. One less day I’ll get to spend with her before she leaves.

I’ve hand-sanded this same damn section of baseboard three times. Partly because I want it smooth so it’s easier to paint, but mostly because I can’t stop glancing at her.

Sunny’s crouched on the floor at the other end of the hallway, barefoot, covered in specks of white paint. She’s wearing a sports bra and the shortest pair of cutoffs I’ve ever seen. Her hair’s piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and she’s humming along to the playlist she created on my phone. And right now, I am not okay.

The house is warm today; the air conditioner seems to be struggling. So, we opened the windows, along with the front and back door, so a draft would blow through. Box fans are running, but sweat still clings to the back of my neck. Even so, this Texas heat ain’t nothing compared to her.

She’s on her knees, bent forward slightly, while she smooths a bead of caulk across the baseboards like she’s done it a hundred times. My girl is a natural at renovations, and she strives for perfection.

She’s completely unbothered by the fact that I’m hanging on by a thread over here. I shift my grip on the sandpaper and try not to steal a peek again, but I fail miserably.

This time, she glances over, catches me staring, and lifts an eyebrow like she’s half amused.

“You okay, cowboy?”

I blink. “Yeah. Just checking your …lines.”

Curves.

She stands and stretches her arms overhead, spine arching just enough to make me forget what words are. I see her flat stomach and her cute little belly button.

Must. Stop. Staring.

“You’ve gone quiet on me,” she says, reaching to grab more painter’s tape. “Makes a girl wonder if she’s doing something wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I mutter. “You’re just extremely distracting.”

She grins like she’s satisfied. “Not my fault.”

“Oh, please. It’s definitely your fault.”

“It’s a burden,” she says, batting her eyes at me.

It’s the words I told her a few mornings ago when she couldn’t stop staring at me. The attraction swirling between us is explosive and undeniable.

I go back to sanding more baseboards with a little more focus than necessary, hoping like hell she can’t see the effect she’s having on me. But judging by the smirk she’s wearing, she knows, and she’s enjoying it. We work like that for a while—me sanding then hanging, her caulking and painting. It should feel like a task, but doesn’t. It feels like teamwork, and we’re building something together, even if neither of us knows what that is.

When she passes behind me, her shoulder brushes mine.

She doesn’t move away fast, but neither do I.

Eventually, she returns to where she was working. Sunlight streams across her thighs, and I glance away before I do something stupid, like drop to my knees, place my palms on her cheeks, and kiss her.

I never expected the hand-holding, family dinners, or small-town smoke and mirrors. I didn’t expect to memorize the curve of her back while she helped to paint my hallway or to have her enjoy this place like it was more than just a detour.

She’s going to ruin me if I’m not careful. Truth is, I’m okay with it.

We take a break in the late afternoon when the sun has turned mean and the hallway smells like paint and pinewood and whatever magic lives in her shampoo. I grab two bottles of water from the fridge. Sunny’s already sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of her, which are speckled with dried paint.

I hand her one.

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