Page 17 of Fixing to Be Mine

“I’m Southern,” he says, like that fact explains everything. And somehow, it does. “It’s what we do.”

“So, if anyone rolls up to your house and asks for a place to stay, your answer is yes because you’re Southern?” I question.

“Not exactly. I’m intrigued by you,” he admits. “I plan on figurin’ out why.”

I swallow hard. His admission makes my breath catch. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you, which is saying a lot.”

“Love to hear it, darlin’,” he tells me with a smirk, drinking his coffee. “You won’t ever meet anyone like me again.”

I take a bite of eggs, which are warm and salted perfectly. The bacon is crisp without being dry. The toast is golden at the edges, and I smear enough butter on it for it to taste like comfort. It’s not fancy, but somehow, it’s perfect.

He doesn’t fill the silence as he eats. He stays calm and collected, like there’s nothing strange about any of this, like I don’t intimidate him. Maybe if he knew who I was, that would be different, or it wouldn’t.

I chew slower than usual, trying not to devour it. After a few bites, I glance up and catch him watching me with a lazy grin, like he’s figuring me out, like I’m a puzzle.

He’s curious, but a little cautious.

“What are you thinking?” I ask directly.

His eyes drift, slow and deliberate, from my face to the hem of the oversize shirt resting high on my thigh, then back up to meet my gaze again.

“Thinkin’ about how my shirt looks good on you,” he says. It’s a truth he doesn’t need to dress up.

I freeze for half a second, my fork halfway to my mouth, then force a small smile. “Sorry. I grabbed my suitcase and realized my pajamas were in my duffel bag in the car.”

“Don’t mind. Whatever I have here that you need, it’s yours. Sharing is caring,” he says.

Suddenly, I don’t know what to do with how hot my skin feels beneath this fabric.

“I mean that,” he offers. “You’re my guest of honor.”

His words are simple, but they land heavy.

“Thank you,” I say, and we finish eating.

We steal glances across the table. I can’t deny the electricity humming under the surface, and I probably shouldn’t like having his attention as much as I do. When he glances at me wearing his T-shirt, I can’t help but wonder what else of his might look good on me.

CHAPTER SIX

COLT

“Thanks for everything,” she says, setting her fork on top of her empty plate.

She didn’t leave a single crumb behind, and, hell, I love to see it.

“You’re welcome,” I say, meaning every damn word.

I noticed how she took her time with each bite, like it had been a while since someone had fed her a home-cooked meal. That alone is enough to make me want to prepare breakfast for her from now on.

The old, mismatched chair lets out a familiar creak as she stands, but it’s the absence of her across from me that hits louder. She picks up her plate like she’s still finding her footing in this place.

“You can leave it in the sink. I’ll take care of it when I’m done.”

“Sure. I’m gonna change clothes,” she says over her shoulder. “Anything specific I need to wear to be your handy-helper today?”

I smirk—can’t help it. Handy-helper. I like the way that sounds. “Something comfortable, but not too loose. Something you’re not afraid to sweat in or get paint on.”

She grins. “Perfect. Meet you in ten.”

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