“Uh…” I clear my throat, brows drawn tight. “Thank you.” I shoot the guys a confused look. “Sorry, ma’am, did I miss the meeting? I thought it was set for five?”
“Oh, no. I was free this morning, and figured I’d pop in. Your mom said you were out shopping for Aurora and let me in. No big deal—I got what I needed.”
I exhale slowly, nodding even though she can’t see me. “Okay. Well, thanks.”
She chuckles. “I can tell I caught you off guard. Anyway, I’ve already shared my findings with Judge Romero, and he’s signed off on everything.”
Holy shit.
“Once you sign the paperwork I emailed over, we’ll get it processed. Aurora will likely be with you by Monday or Tuesday.”
“Monday…” I echo, dazed as I turn into Honey Bea. “That’s fast.”
Ethel laughs softly. “This town’s small—things tend to move quickly. Especially when there’s a valid will and everything’s legally in order. At this point, it’s just checking boxes.”
My chest tightens. It’s really happening.
“And after?” I ask, my voice thick. “How long do I need to wait to file for adoption?”
There’s a pause, then a warm sigh.
“I’m really glad you’re taking this seriously. If I’ve seen anything over the last few weeks, it’s how committed you are. As far as adoption goes, I’ll bring the paperwork when I drop Aurora off next week, and we’ll go over it together. Sound good?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for everything. I appreciate it.”
“Of course, have a great weekend, Mr. Archer.”
She hangs up just as I’m pulling into my new gravel driveway. I throw it in park and lower my phone, jaw unhinged, body thrumming with excitement, and shock.
“What did she say?” Wilder shouts, slapping my seat. “Dude! You can’t leave us hanging like this.”
“She’s mine,” I mutter, swallowing hard. “Aurora is mine.”
And for some crazy, unknown reason, all I want is to tell Georgia.
Chapter Twenty Three
The Space Between Our Scars
“What the fuck?” I mutter, freezing mid-step.
My eyes are wide, heart hammering, and my family and friends? They’re cheering, filling up every corner of my house, along with a hell of a lot of furniture that wasn’t here when I left this morning.
The small brown leather loveseat I’d gotten just so the living room wasn’t empty is tucked next to the fireplace to make spacefor a massive matching sectional. There are rustic barstools lining the island in the same shade of oak as the worn but solid dining table in front of the back windows. Fuckin’ thing has enough chairs to seat my whole family—and then some.
A sideboard I recognize as my mom’s is by the entry, lined with framed photos of my sisters, the farm, and my parents. My throat constricts when I see the two pictures of my dad and me, just off to the side, like whoever put them out knew they’d burn to see.
The walls are lined with more pictures, the floors are covered in massive soft looking rugs, blankets and pillows are on the couch, and somehow—somehow, my house feels like a real home.
“Welcome home, man,” Griff murmurs, squeezing my shoulder. “Your little girl’s gonna be damn happy here.”
He brushes past me and heads to the kitchen where a bunch of ranch hands who’ve helped with renovations are drinking beers. They all slap hands and clap backs like old friends, passing him a beer as they turn back to the game playing on a massive TV I definitely didn’t buy.
The group parts, groaning and shouting about a bad play, and I’m floored that the loudest voice comes from Agnes Whittaker. Gaping, I look away before she catches my stare and takes it as an invitation.
My eyes scan the crowd three times, and try as I might, it’s damn near impossible to ignore the empty pit that settles in my gut when I don’t catch sight of bright red curls.
The immediate disappointment should be a giantwhat the fuckto my system, should tell me I’m in way over my head where she’s concerned, but I can’t find it in me to care about the wrongness of it all.
