Page 75 of Fixing to Be Mine

I laugh, already heading toward the front room, where the supplies are stored. “Great. But I get to control the music today.”

“That’s fair,” he says, trailing after me. “As long as it’s not depressing.”

“Oh, so no sad love songs?”

“Exactly. No heartbreak on a loop.”

I shoot him a glance over my shoulder, but I’m still smiling as I walk into the huge room to grab brushes, paint trays, tape, and caulk. The air in the house still smells faintly of wood and joint compound, but it’s cooler in here now; the air conditioner is keeping up enough to make it bearable. It doesn’t stop him from turning on every box fan he has available.

“Ready?” he asks. “I think we can finish the rest of the baseboards throughout the house by dark since everything is already cut.”

“Let’s do it,” I tell him.

We share a high five, then fall into a rhythm almost immediately.

The sounds of light footsteps, the tearing of tape, and the sliding of boards against the floor fill the quiet without overwhelming it. In the background, ’90s rock plays, and Colt sings along with some of the songs. There’s no pressure, no awkwardness in the space between us, only the comfort of shared tasks and building something better together.

At one point, I glance over and catch him watching me, and we exchange smiles.

Hours pass, and he finishes hanging the baseboards in other rooms as I wrap up painting the hallway. It already seems like a completely different house. I’m amazed by how much we’ve accomplished together in such a short amount of time.

The two of us move into the kitchen to clean the paintbrushes and rollers when Colt leans his hip against the counter and glances over at me. His shirt is speckled with paint, and there’s asmudge near his jaw that he hasn’t noticed yet. The light coming through the kitchen window catches in his dark hair, and for a moment, I allow myself to admire him.

He clears his throat like he’s been debating whether to say something.

“Kinsley texted me,” he says. “She and Summer were wondering if you’d want to hang out with them tomorrow. Said they’d love to help you get ready for your date, but only if you’re up for it.”

The offer takes me off guard, not because I’m surprised they’d be kind, but because it seems normal. Like something women in small towns do for each other when someone’s got a big night. It’s not something I’m accustomed to.

“You want me to hang out with your older sister and her bestie alone?” I ask, drying my hands for too long to give myself something to do.

He shrugs, but I can see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Only if you want to. There’s no pressure. They’re fun, and you might enjoy hanging out with someone other than me.”

I nod slowly, my chest tightening around something soft. “Okay. Sure. I’d love to.”

His grin spreads wider. “They’ll be happy. Said they loved chatting with you at the rodeo. Be careful though. If they fall in love with you, they’ll never let you leave town.”

“I like them a lot. I don’t have many friends back in New York,” I tell him.

“You already have more than enough here.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

COLT

Inever thought picking out a damn shirt would be so hard. The bed is covered in options, most of which are the same—a handful of button-downs in various shades of blue or black, three clean white ones, and several pearl snaps.

The full-length mirror beside his dresser catches my reflection as I stand there, barefoot in jeans, one hand dragging through my hair. I’ve got a dull ache in my lower back from crouching over baseboards yesterday, but none of that’s what has my chest feeling tight.

It’sher.

This isn’t some casual dinner. It’s not a fake dating situation or a favor. Tonight is real for me, and I want to get it right.

I settle on a crisp white shirt—no pattern, no distractions—and roll the sleeves. I run a clean cloth over my boots and check the time out of habit, even though I already know there is no rush. There’s a knock at the open door, followed by the unmistakable clatter of bracelets. Remi leans against the frame, arms crossed, eyebrows already raised.

“Wow,” she says, dragging the word out like she’s impressed and smug about it. “You even shaved.”

I glance at her in the mirror reflection. “I want to do this right.”

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