I have to blink a few times to clear my vision. Jaw ticking, body vibrating, I try to talk, but my voice breaks. Clearing my throat, I manage a tortured soundingthanks.
“Why don’t you take a few minutes and go explore,” she says softly, squeezing my hand. “Maybe spend some time in the nursery where it’s quiet.”
Unable to respond, I jerk a nod and move through the house with purpose. A few people try to pull me into conversations, but I quickly tell them all I’ve gotta make a call and step away, doing everything in my power not to fall apart in front of half the fuckin’ town.
My boots are heavy on the shiny floors, freshly mopped and waxed by someone who wasn't me. I pause when I reach the hall that leads to my room, finding the walls lined with photos of the farm throughout the years. They’re all blown up black and whites, framed in dark wood that warms the white walls.
Throat tight, heart hammering, I peek into the closets, master bath and my room, finding little things added to every single space, just like my mom said there would be.
But it’s the closed door that connects my room to Aurora’s that has my hand trembling. Haven’t seen it in well over a week, and now that I know how over the top the rest of the house is, I can’t even imagine what the Archer’s pulled together for their newest member.
I swallow roughly, and exhale slowly, as I push through the door, body braced like I’m stepping into a battle zone instead of a damn nursery.
Light fills the dim opening, pouring in from the window, and my breath catches before stalling altogether.
But the lack of oxygen has nothing to do with the beautiful soft yellow walls, or the white furniture that matches the convertible crib I bought. It’s not the bee theme dancing across every surface, or the massive bright rainbow mural that arches over the baby's bed.
No, it’s the woman in the rocker—fiery red curls spilling down her back—folding baby clothes with tears in her eyes, and heartache written across her face.
My hand tightens around the doorknob. I freeze, caught off guard by the sight of her here. Georgia hasn’t seen me. Hasn’t heard me.
So like the fool I am when it comes to her, I stare.
A cloud shifts outside, sunlight breaking through the window and landing across her body. For a second, she glows. Not soft or angelic… no, that’s not her.
Sheburns.
Golden strands of her hair catch the light like embers about to spark. Her freckles pop against skin paler than usual, flushed and wet with tears. And even with red-rimmed eyes and a crease between her brows that says she’s hurting, she’s still the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.
Throat bobbing, jaw pulsing wildly, I slide my gaze down her body, taking in a floral skirt that brushes the top of her cowboy boots pack a hell of a punch now that I know she can ride. She’s got a thick sweater on, covering arms I now know are tattooed with thin-lined drawings that dot her skin like freckles—flowers falling from a tree dance across her bicep, a rainbow by her wrist. Words that were too tiny for me make out without looking like a creep.
They’re simple and delicate. And maybe before, I would have said they suited a city girl like her.
But looking at her now, with tears trickling down her face, her small hands moving carefully over every piece of Aurora’s clothes with love, and something like longing, I can’t help but think how fuckin’ wrong I’ve been.
Georgia Walker is far from simple. She’s more than the wildfire I love igniting. She’s not a storm I can ride out or ignore. She’s layered and raw. Quietly wrecked in a way that makes my own broken pieces wanna lean closer.
I don’t know what the hell’s happening in my chest, but whatever storm was brewing there goes quiet just by looking at her.
And before I can stop myself—before I even think—I’m stepping into the room, breaking the silence with the only words that make sense.
“Who the hell made you cry?”
She bursts from the chair with a gasp, and the neat pile on her knee goes flying. Meadow eyes wide, Georgia whirls on me, hand pressed to her chest, hair sticking to her damp cheeks.
And because I’ve well and truly lost the fuckin’ plot, I charge forward, stepping over clothes, boots sinking into a plush cream rug like a man possessed, halting less than an inch from her.
My hand comes up, and she jerks back, but I palm her hip, keeping her still.
“What… what are you…” she says, words thick and stuttering.
I slide my fingers through her hair, brushing it back as I murmur, “Why are you crying?”
“I’m fine.” Her throat bobs and she glances away, dragging her face from my touch, but I don’t let go, keeping her soft curls in my gentle grip.
My gaze collides with a bruise on her temple. Everything in me goes still, but the pounding of my heart threatens to bust through my ribcage.
“What the fuck?” The words are garbled, like they’ve been dragged over rocks. “Who the hell hit you?”
