Page 49 of Fixing to Be Mine

“Are you always this intense?” she asks.

I sit down across from her, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “Only around pretty girls.”

She smiles as she takes a long sip, the water bottle pressed against her lower lip. My eyes flick there for half a second too long. She doesn’t miss it.

“Is this where I apologize for the shorts?” she teases.

“No,” I say, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “This is where I try not to ask you to wear them every day.”

She laughs, light and easy, but when she leans her head back against the wall, the expression on her face shifts into something quieter. “This is the most I’ve smiled in months,” she says softly. “It feels good.”

I nod. “Looks good too.”

She glances around the room, eyes landing on the unfinished trim, the paint rollers, and the boxes of screws that are lyingaround. We sit in the stillness for a few moments. The hum of the fans and the chirp of cicadas outside fill the space where words don’t need to be.

“I never thought I’d enjoy building something that wasn’t mine.”

I follow her gaze. “It could be yours.”

She blinks slowly. “What?”

“I’m taking wife applications.” I rest my arm on my bent knee, watching her. The mood grows serious. “This house was never only about finishing a project. I’m fixing it up for a future I wasn’t sure I’d ever have. One I only imagined was possible,” I admit.

She doesn’t speak, only watches me like I’m saying something that wasn’t to be said out loud, but I don’t care.

I glance away, my voice a little quieter now. “I told myself that if I built a strong foundation and became the best version of myself possible, the right woman would show up.” I feel as if I’ve said too much, gotten too deep, so I add, “And if she didn’t … at least I’d have a damn good porch to sit on, alone.

“No one else in my life can see what this house will be one day. Just you.”

The sunlight shifts through the open door, casting long golden lines across the floor. It lands on her knees, then across her collarbone, lighting her up like a promise.

She lifts her water but doesn’t drink from it. Her eyes are still on me.

“I see it,” she says. “The hardwood floors, high ceilings, large windows, and open space.” She smiles like she’s imagining it. “It will be beautiful.”

“It already is,” I say, not taking my eyes from her.

For a minute, neither of us moves.

I clear my throat. “We should pick up our mess, then get ready to go. Kinsley said she’s gonna drop off some clothes for ya,” I explain as I pick up the paint trays and brushes.

“Great. I’m excited to attend my first rodeo,” she says.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” I tell her.

Sunny disappears down the hall to take a shower, and I wipe down the counters and try not to think too hard about her being just one door away, wet and naked.

I fail miserably.

As I finish cleaning up, sweeping the hallway, I hear a car pull up. A moment later, the screen door creaks open, and there’s a light knock.

“Coming!” I call out, leaning the broom against the wall.

“Delivery service, Southern edition,” she singsongs. “I expect a tip!”

I meet her at the door. She’s in cutoff overalls, flip-flops, and sunglasses that are way too big for her face. In her hand is a huge canvas bag that’s been packed with enthusiasm rather than logic because clothes are hanging out of the top.

“You said one outfit. This is your closet,” I say, taking it from her.

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