Georgia gasps.
I just… freeze. Like my soul just slammed on the brakes and flipped the emergency lights.
“Oh my God,” Georgia chokes out, sniffling as she coos, “Say it again. Say dada, baby.”
Aurora blinks up at me, entirely unfazed, then grins wide.
“Dada,” she says again, confident now, hands slapping against my cheeks.
My knees almost give out.
Georgia claps a hand over her mouth and starts sobbing—ugly, beautiful tears spilling down her face as she watches us. My owneyes blur, and I bury my face in Aurora’s neck, breathing her in and whispering, “Say it again.”
“Dadadadadada!”
I laugh through the tears, peppering her chubby cheeks with kisses. “That’s right, baby girl. I’m your Dada. I’m your Dada.”
And I am.
Somewhere between pain and farm chores and Georgia’s quiet love, I’ve become a dad. Unlikely as fuck, but it happened and I…
It’s everything.
She squeals, wrapping her arms around my neck and squeezing. Her whole body hugs me like she’s been waiting for this moment just as much as I have. And right then, everything else disappears.
Georgia steps in, still crying, and wraps herself around both of us.
We stay like that for a long time. A family, held together by dirt-stained hands, wildflowers, and a single, life-altering word.
Chapter Forty Six
Cowgirl in Crisis
Idon’t remember turning off the ignition. Don’t remember kicking off my heels or unlocking the front door. But I must’ve done all three, because I’m inside now, still fully dressed, work bag clutched to my chest like it’ll help me breathe.
Kade’s house smells like home and the reality of that’s like a sucker punch to my already aching chest.
Ignoring the pain, I walk straight into the living room and collapse onto the comfy couch I’ve spent weeks—longer, even, cuddling on with the two people who feel a hell of a lot like my family.
My bag clatters to the floor along with my sanity. Holding my breath, I listen to the sounds of the house, waiting for Aurora’s adorable squeals or heartbreaking cries. I wait for Kade’s heavy steps or his rough voice calling out to see if I’m home.
When nothing but silence greets me, I crumble. The tears start before I even register the sob that rips out of me. I clutch one of the throw pillows to my chest, the rough linen scraping my cheek, and I finally release the sob that’s been building all day.
My chest heaves. My throat aches. My hands shake so hard I have to dig them into the seams of the pillow just to keep from unraveling further.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
I fought.
God, I fought.
Tessa’s case landed on my desk three months ago—a fifteen-year-old with chronic truancy reports and red flags all over her file.
But the first time I met her… when I stood in that filthy living room with its dim lights and fridge humming like a dying animal, I knew the truth didn’t live in the papers. It lived in her eyes. In the way she stood in front of her much younger siblings, protecting them from a threat like she’d been doing it her whole life.
She wasn’t skipping school to party or get high. She wasworking.
A baby herself, babysitting and waitressing. Scrubbing houses for neighbors just to keep the power on. Their mom, recently divorced and drowning in bills, was barely holding on. Three jobs, no support or family, an MIA ex.
