She grins, snatches my hat straight off my head, and turns on her heel, sprinting toward Pudding.
“Hey—” I call after her.
She swings into the saddle with ease, adjusting the reins like she’s done it a hundred times. Her new Lucchese boots flash in the sun, buttery tan and stitched with delicate turquoise. I bought them for her last week on a whim, and she wore them like they were made for her—like she was always meant to belong out here.
From the saddle, she winks, dropping her voice to a low imitation of mine. “You know the rule,darlin’.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “I’m countin’ on it, sunshine.”
She kicks her heel gently, and Pudding takes off at a steady lope, her laughter trailing behind her as she waves my hat in the air, hair flying behind her.
Wild. Free. Mine.
Chapter Forty Three
Bake Me Up Before You Go-Go
Iwake up to silence.
The kind that settles over a house that’s been well-loved lately—blankets kicked off, sunlight slanting through the open windows, and the faint scent of something sweet and sex still clinging to my sheets.
Rolling over, I snag the camera monitor we have for the nursery and stare at my girl.
Aurora’s on her stomach, diapered butt high in the air, face tilted toward the camera like she knows I’m watching. Her chubby cheeks are rosy and one hand is clenched around the ear of her bear, the other tucked between her puckered lips.
I stare for a while, just watching her chest rise and fall, the sound of her soft little sighs echoing through my too-quiet room.
Heart full and aching, I snag the monitor and get up, dragging on sweats as I head for the door. Second I open it, the soft sound of a song I now know by heart, drifting through the warm, oven-scented air.
Smiling, I quietly head toward the kitchen, where I can hear Georgia softly singing.
She’s baking and listening to her playlist. The one I made from memory—every female voice she’s ever played through her phone, humming under her breath while working through case files or washing dishes or brushing her hair. It started as a note in my phone. Became a playlist for our date night under the stars.
She’s had it on repeat ever since.
That night, I asked her why she loves female singers so much. Never hear her listen to anything else but ballads and anthems, strong, powerful voices. She shrugged, cheeks burning red hot, but simply said, “I just do.”
I stop short at the kitchen threshold, spotting her like I’m programmed to find her in any room.
She’s standing barefoot in front of the island, wearing nothing but one of my flannels that can’t be all that buttoned judging by the way it’s falling off her small frame. The hem barely skims the curve of her ass, and the sleeves are rolled up, hair clipped up in some messy twist. There’s flour on her fingers, cinnamon in the air, and sunlight pouring over her like a fuckin’ dream.
She’s stunning.
I’ve found her this way too many times to count since I filled my cabinets with food she can eat, and baking shit she can safely use. To me, it was a no brainer, but to Georgia, it was stress relief in the form of soft dough, and early mornings gettin’ her head right before she heads off to a hard day of work. Work that seems to be tugging on her soul, more and more, every day.
We spend every morning in this kitchen. Her humming, us dancing, coffee on her tongue, her body wrapped around mine, soft and sleepy and pliant.
And when I’m done lovin’ on her, we eat whatever she cooked out on the porch in the wicker rockers I bought, just for that purpose.
The mornings are still cold, and sometimes, it’s so early, steam rises off our coffee like fog from the ground, but in those quiet moments, I’ve never felt so damn whole.
Georgia tips her head back, a smile tugging on her lips and softly sings the soulful words of “A Case Of You” by Joni Mitchell like she means every damn word.
My heart fumbles in my chest, and my cock throbs painfully, pressing thick and hot against the inside of my sweats.
I move before I can think, stepping up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist, my face dipping into her neck.
“Morning, freckles,” I rasp, voice still rough with sleep and need.
