Page 51 of Fixing to Be Mine

“That’s what I said.” I try not to sound like my brain just stopped functioning. “Kinsley said the sparkly boots are from Summer.”

I walk over to her, carefully keeping my eyes on her face and not on the fact that her collarbone is still damp and the towel is dangerously low on her chest.

“Thanks. I honestly don’t deserve any of this,” she says, reaching for the bag.

Her fingers graze mine, and that’s all it takes for heat to crawl down the back of my neck.

“Of course you do, darlin’. You deserve it all.”

She holds the bag against her hip and gives me that slow, gorgeous smile of hers. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I blink. “What?”

“I need your help,” she says, backing toward the door. “I want to seem like I belong at this rodeo, and if anyone can help me pass, it’s you. Being a cowboy is your wheelhouse.”

I stare at her. “You want me to pick out your clothes?”

“Yep,” she says, amused. “Help me play the part.”

She disappears into the bedroom with a laugh and the bag of clothes swinging at her side, leaving me standing in the hallway like I’ve been punched in the chest.

I press my hands to my hips and shake my head. This woman is going to be the end of me. And the worst part is, I don’t even mind.

Without a word, I step inside with her, and I can’t help but notice how naturally gorgeous she is. My brain short-circuits.

She’s wrapped in a single white towel, her bare legs and shoulders still dewy from the shower. Her hair’s damp and already curling at the ends. She smells like soap and something vaguely citrus. Carefully, she empties the big bag on the bed, sending different-colored fabrics spilling everywhere. On top are the sparkly silver boots.

“Okay,” she says, hands on her hips. “Make me a rodeo princess.”

I notice the curve of her collarbone, how the towel clings just above her chest, the line of her thigh when she shifts her weight to one leg. I’ve never had the urge to kiss someone more in my life.

She glances back at me. “You with me, cowboy?”

Barely.

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat, stepping closer to the bed.

I force myself to focus on the pile in front of me.

“Darlin’ you’d better be glad I grew up with so many sisters.”

“I am,” she says as I spread all the shirts and shorts on the bed.

There are crop tops and tank tops and short-sleeved checkered-pattern shirts in different colors.

“Let’s start with this.” I grab a blouse with a ruffle and hand it to her, then grab a pair of dark-washed cutoffs. “With these shorts. It’s a good outfit. Honest.”

She takes them from me, fingers brushing against mine. “Honest,” she repeats. “Is that cowboy code fortight?”

“It’s cowboy code foryou’re gonna kill me, along with every other man who’s there tonight.”

She laughs, then picks up the cutoffs. “Just my size.”

My throat goes dry.

She tosses them onto the bed. “Hmm. there’s only one thing missing.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

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