Page 10 of Fixing to Be Mine

“Remi gave me your address,” I say, trying to sound like I do this sort of thing often.

He raises one brow, gaze sweeping over me from head to toe, like he’s reading the fine print. “Did she?”

He’s being too flirty without even trying.

“I stopped by to book a room at the bed-and-breakfast.”

He takes a swig of whiskey. “They’re booked up. The whole town is until after Labor Day.”

“I learned that the hard way.” I cross my arms even though I know it makes me look defensive. “She said you were too stubborn to offer your house, but not mean enough to say no.”

It’s the gist, and it earns me the twitch of a smile.

The porch swing creaks as he leans back, stretching one long leg out, like this is all very casual, like I’m not a stranger.

“Reckon that sounds about right.” His gaze slides over me like he’s making up his mind about me. His eyes narrow, perfect mouth curved upward, showing that billion-dollar smile. “Truth be told, a woman like you deserves better than what I’ve got to offer. You seem like a girl who likes the finer things in life, not a half-renovated house.”

There’s no edge in his words, just a quiet truth he seems to believe. And somehow, it’s worse than if he’d told me to leave.

I let out a slow breath, placing my arms by my sides. “Right now, my choice is sleeping in the back seat of my car at the rest area down the road. If I can’t find somewhere soon, I’m leaving town.”

A flicker of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. It’s not much, but it’s enough to soften the moment. He stands, and the space between us tightens.

He’s taller than I remember. All shoulders and shadows, with a quiet heat that radiates off him, like he’s built to burn steady, but not fast.

My throat goes dry, and I don’t recall a time when a man ever made me feel like this, but I hold my ground.

He is too young.

He doesn’t move closer, but he watches me for another second before tipping his chin toward the door.

“I’ll give you an official tour,” he says, voice low. “You should see it first, then decide if the back seat of your car is better. Come on.”

He leads me inside, and I pause at the doorway.

The place is rough, but there are some walls. Tools are neatly organized on a makeshift table with wood horses. A ladder leans against the wall like it’s had a long day. But there’s intention everywhere I look. Sheetrock and wood and trim are stacked in different areas with care. The screws are set flush in the wall, and everything seems to be waiting. Even him.

This house isn’t a wreck; it’s a project—or rather, a beautiful home in progress.

He watches me like he expects me to turn around and run, but I don’t.

“Kitchen’s through there,” he says, nodding to the left. “Bathroom’s done, and the primary bedroom is too. The rest is still under construction, but it’s livable.”

He walks ahead, pointing out what spaces will be when they’re finished. His voice stays even, almost proud, like this isn’t weird for him—like it’s totally normal to give a late-night house tour to a woman who showed up with more baggage than sense.

I trail behind him, taking in the details. I love the high ceilings, old floors that creak in the best way. He takes me to the kitchen, and I look out the gigantic bay window that shows the stars. In the back is a barn.

“I’ve been fixing it up for a while now,” he says. “Bought it with the plan to raise my family here.”

My heart drops. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t ask if your wife would be okay with this.”

A chuckle escapes him. “No wife. No fiancée. No girlfriend. I’m preparing for my future.”

The way he says it—it’s not only about the house. It’s about roots and intention. Aboutbuildingsomething and being prepared for a future he wants. It’s so respectable that it steals my breath away.

“It should be finished by next summer,” he says to me in the hallway.

He’s still carrying the whiskey in his hand, and I can’t help but admire the way his muscles stack across his back.

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