Page 91 of Fixing to Be Mine

When the last note hits, he tilts my chin up, kissing me, like he’s sealing something permanent between us.

When we part, there’s a small burst of applause around the room, but I hardly hear it.

Colt smiles, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “Perfect partner.”

I look up into his eyes and almost believe it.

The next song is upbeat, and several people flood the stage so they can sing along with London, who works the crowd like she’s in a huge stadium.

“You know, your sister has talent.”

“I know,” he says with a laugh. “She’s gonna be huge.”

I cross my arms in front of me. “You do see the best in everything.”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do,” he says.

We slide into a couple of stools near the corner, and we’re half shadowed, half visible.

He leans forward, getting the bartender’s attention. “’Scuse me, sir.”

A guy comes over—a cute bartender, wearing a cowboy hat. “Sunny, this is my friend Boone Tucker. His parents own this place.”

Boone takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.

Colt’s jaw clenches. “I will fuck you up.”

I laugh. “Nice to meet you.”

“If it doesn’t work out with Colty, lemme know,” he says. “Whatcha drinkin’? You look like a dry-martini type of woman. Or you like drinkin’ your whiskey neat.”

My mouth falls open. “How did you do that?”

“I’m good at readin’ people, especially those boss-babe women from the city. It’s the vibe.”

My brow lifts. “I’ll take the martini. Extra dirty. Make sure the glass is clean,” I tell him matter-of-factly.

“The regular?” he asks Colt who gives him a quick head nod in return.

Colt smirks and turns back to me. “I love it when you turn that part of you on. It’s like a light switch.”

A few minutes later, Boone returns with our drinks.

“Y’all need anything, holler. Nice meetin’ you, miss. Treat my bestie right. He’s a good guy.”

“Aww, stop. She’s going to think I told you to say that,” he says with a laugh, lifting his glass.

We twist in the stools, so we can look at one another easier.

“Is he related to Jace?”

“You’re good at paying attention, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” I say.

“They’re brothers,” he explains. “Jace is three years younger than us. More of an asshole, if that’s possible.”

I commit that fact to memory, then focus back on him. “When I return to New York, I’d like to speak to someone about London.”

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