Page 69 of Fixing to Be Mine

She exits the kitchen, and I finish my coffee. I tug on my boots and head out to the barn. Cheerio and Fruit Loops lazily walk into their stalls, knowing it’s time to eat.

I move into the feed room and scoop grain into the buckets, the rhythmic sound grounding me while my thoughts run wild.

Stormy.

I roll her name around in my head like I’m still getting used to it. Sunny does fit her—bright smile, sudden warmth, along with the ability to light up a room by walking into it. But Stormy? Now that I’ve seen what’s under the surface … yeah. That fits too.

I grab the buckets, pouring one into Cheerio’s trough, and scratch the spot behind his ears. He pushes into my hand like he misses me.

“We’re gonna go on a ride soon, I promise,” I say.

He snorts and goes back to eating. It’s been a while since I’ve gone riding because I’ve been so focused on the house, but it’s my favorite hobby. I move into Fruit Loops’s stall and feed her, giving quality pets before putting up the empty buckets.

I stare at the back pasture that seems to go on forever.

Last night, I kissed her. When we came home, she climbed into my lap and made the first move. That kiss wasn’t sweet. It was scorching. Messy. Real.

And now?

Now I’m standing in a barn, body buzzing with thoughts of her, and I still don’t know her last name.

Stormy probably has staff and stock portfolios and God knows what else tucked behind that perfect smile. I’m just a country guy with dirt under his nails and a house I’m rebuilding piece by piece.

I lean against the post and drag a hand down my jaw.

Does knowing these details about her change anything?

No. I don’t give a damn what her last name is, where her money comes from, or what kind of world she walked away from. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t reeling a little. Not because I’m intimidated, but because I’ve never wanted something this bad and still felt like it wasn’t mine to have.

I glance back at the half-painted house. The windows reflect the morning light. She’s probably moving around in there, pulling on jeans, brushing her hair, not even knowing how she’s already sunk her claws so deep into me that I can’t breathe without thinking of her.

I lock the feed room and take a moment to watch the sky shift. It’s pale blue this morning with no signs of storm clouds.

After ten minutes, I move back inside and grab a baseball cap. She’s wearing exactly what I imagined, along with a smile that’s reserved for me. Before we head to the shelter, she leads me to her Camaro, and knowing it’s her ex’s makes me want to set it on fire. The sun is higher now, baking the gravel beneath our boots, and the breeze has all but disappeared.

She pops the trunk. The lid lifts with a soft groan, and for a second, I think I’m only going to see a duffel bag or some spare clothes. But what’s there makes me go still.

The wedding dress is balled up and shoved deep in the corner. It’s wrinkled, but still unmistakably expensive. White lace, silk, a flash of satin that probably cost more than every rental property I own. One diamond-studded heel is lying on its side, the other wedged beneath the bag. It looks like something she meant to throw away, but couldn’t.

I glance at her, but she doesn’t say anything. She stares into the trunk like it’s something she’s been avoiding for too long.

Without hesitation, I place my hand on her shoulder. My palm rests there gently, firm enough to say I see it, soft enough to say she doesn’t owe me an explanation.

“We should burn it,” I say.

“What?” she asks, startled. She’s unzipping the duffel bag now, stacks of cash spilling into view like it’s nothing more than old clothes. She grabs several stacks of cash.

“The car. The dress. All of it.”

She stops moving. Her hand lingers on the zipper, eyes flicking toward mine.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking.” She stares at the crumpled gown, and then she laughs. “At one point, I thought about putting it in neutral and pushing it off a cliff, but I didn’t want anyone to believe I was dead. That would cause too much commotion.”

“Wait right here,” I tell her.

I head inside without a word and walk straight to the closet in my bedroom. I reach for a small duffel and the aluminum bat that’s leaning in the corner. It’s old, scratched, and dented from years of backyard use, but it’s reliable.

I carry it back out to the front yard, where she’s standing, staring down at the black Camaro like it insulted her.

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