Page 97 of Fixing to Be Mine

I chew on my lip. “Want to stop by the church on the way home?”

“Now who’s the sinner?” he asks, resting a hand on my thigh.

“I’m just enabling.” I slide my fingers over his knuckles.

“It’s locked. We’ll have to sneak in on a Sunday afternoon.”

I lift my brows. “You’ve done recon on this?”

“Nah, darlin’, just paid attention to details when everyone else wasn’t.”

The ride home is full of stolen glances and smirks. My legs are tingling, and I don’t bother pretending I’m not replaying the last thirty minutes in my head. From the look on Colt’s face, he is too.

When we pull into the driveway, the house glows like it was waiting for us.

Inside, it’s cool and dark and familiar. The moment the door clicks shut behind us, I let out a long breath.

Colt watches me for a beat, then steps forward and cups my face in his hands. “That,” he whispers, brushing his thumb over my cheek, “was the best weeknight I’ve ever had.”

I laugh, curling my fingers into the front of his shirt. “I think we’ll keep our talk-of-the-town crown.”

“I don’t care.” He kisses me. It’s soft and deep, all desperate aftermath that’s full of promise.

We end the night tangled together in bed, a blanket draped across us like an afterthought.

My body’s sore in the best way. My heart’s too full. And as he holds me against him, I let myself imagine a life where I don’t leave.

Is it even possible?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

COLT

The smell of paint hits me before I even step inside. It’s a familiar scent of something becoming new again.

Stormy’s in the living room, bent over the tray, reloading her roller with a light yellow that reminds me of her. She’s barefoot, wearing soft gray shorts and a black tank top that clings to her curves. Her hair’s up, but barely. Messy strands fall against her cheek, and every time she pushes one behind her ear, I lose my thoughts.

The color is turning out better than I expected. I’m glad she chose it because I might have kept every wall white. She’s quick, efficient, and focused. While she works, she hums the melody of the song London wrote for us. She turns and catches me staring.

“Focus, cowboy,” she says, stretching up on her tiptoes, painting as high as she can up the wall.

“I am. On you.”

She glances back at me, one brow raised. “You have a dog to adopt, remember?”

“Yes, ma’am. But I gotta enjoy the view while I can.”

I move forward, grabbing my roller and dipping it in her tray. With a long swipe, I stroke up the wall where she can’t reach. Ihave six inches on her, so she takes the bottom, and I take the top.

“You flatter me,” she says, stepping closer.

“It’s the truth, darlin’.”

“So”—she lingers for a second—“how do you like this color so far?”

“It’s perfect. Happy.Sunny.”

She grins. “I love yellow. Reminds me of the countryside. Summer. Sunshine. Happy thoughts. These walls deserve that.”

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