Page 4 of Fixing to Be Mine

The woman steps inside, a little taller than Remi, with a cute nose that upturns at the end and lips that beg to be stared at. When her sparkling eyes meet mine, the whole damn room shifts. The air completely evaporates, and gravity tugs at us a little harder.

“Now, who are you searching for?” Remi asks, giving me a cocky-as-fucktold you soexpression.

The woman’s gaze locks on me. “Are you Colt Valentine?” Her voice is soft, smooth, and, holy hell, something about her sends a jolt straight through me.

The coffee mug slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor like the second half of a thought I never finished.

“Darlin’, I’ll be anyone you want me to be.”

Remi’s brows furrow as she mouths,Be cool, like I’m not already unraveling.

Cash chuckles low, quietly cleaning up the pieces of my broken mug while I step past him, drawn to her like a damn magnet. She’s even prettier up close—with brown hair with a dash of red; green eyes, sharp enough to cut clean through a man; and lips I can already imagine tasting. She chews on the bottom one like she’s nervous, but her eyes? They don’t flinch.

“How can I help you?” I ask, voice controlled.

She lifts her hand, holding a folded sheet of paper. “I saw you had a listing for this house online. I’m searching for a place.”

I glance at Remi, then back at her. Damn timing.

“Sorry, I rented it to my sister and her hubby. Happened last week.”

Her shoulders drop a little. Disappointment flashes in her eyes.

“Oh, do you have anything else? The lady at the grocery store said you had several properties.”

I shake my head, the truth landing heavier than I thought it would. She looks away first, breaking the tension between us, but it still lingers like static. I wasn’t ready to meet her.

“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

She gives a polite smile and turns, walking out the door like she didn’t gut-punch me with her presence. The screen door snaps closed behind her, and I’m frozen there like a damn idiot.

“What are you doing? Go get her number,” Remi urges. “She might still be in town after we move out of here in November.”

It snaps me into motion. “Oh fuck, right.”

I rush through the front door and off the porch, spotting her already opening the door to a vintage black Camaro convertible—mid-’90s and well kept, like it should be on display somewhere. It has a mountain of dust caked on it and looks like it’s seen much better days.

“Damn, nice car.”

She slides in without looking at me, turns the key. The engine rumbles like it’s angry.

“Wait,” I say, stepping closer.

She rolls down the window, and I lean against her door, trying not to look desperate.

“Give me your number.”

She eyes me like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble. I fucking am.

“If something becomes available, I’ll call you,” I add.

She grabs the flyer that came from the grocery store bulletin board and pulls a pen from the middle console, uncapping it with her teeth. The sight does something stupid to my insides. She scribbles her name and number on it. Our eyes meet again as she hands it over.

I glance down at her name.

“Sunny,” I mutter, letting a slow grin spread.

“Bye, Colt Valentine,” she says, like she’s not afraid of a damn thing.

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