“You ruined my shirt,” I remind her, ticking off my fingers. “My time with my mom. My mood. And before that, you ruined a drunk daze I was desperate for by dropping the bomb that my oldest friend was dead like you were dropping the weather.”
She pales, and a swarm of warring emotions battle for dominance inside me.
“I didn’t mean to,” she murmurs, gaze flicking to the closed door. “I’m really sorry about that. I thought you knew.”
My nod is slow, assessing. She genuinely looks sorry—and something in me relishes her misery. Maybe because it’s the first speck of real emotion she’s given me today. Maybe it’s because I’m miserable too, and it’s nice not to be alone in it.
Or, maybe I’m just an asshole.
“Well,darlin’.” I let the nickname she hates roll off my tongue with a thick-as-shit accent I don’t have. “As my mama’s always said, ‘Sorry’s like a rainstorm after the fire. It don’t undo the burn.’”
My mom’s never said that a day in her life.
Georgia’s mouth falls open, and what looks a hell of a lot like anothersorry, sits on her tongue.
Before she can say anything, I tack on, “And don’t worry about the shirt. I look better without one anyway.”
Her cheeks flare red, one eye twitching like she’s short-circuiting.
Golden-red brows pulled in tight? Check.
Angled jaw working back and forth? Hell yeah.
Good. There’s that fire.
A lazy smirk curls across my mouth as I lean back, legs spreading in the too-small chair like I own the damn place. Her gaze slides over me, and hell if I don’t let mine return the favor.
She’s in that stiff, starched suit again and those too-high heels, every inch of her polished and pressed. Her curls are slicked back into some kind of weird bun I hate, and the freckles I’d been looking forward to are hidden under simple makeup.
Butfuck, she’s still gorgeous.
Georgia’s eyes trail down my body, all slow and clinical, pausing on my Carhartt before working their way down to my nicest pair of jeans—unlike the worn pair she gawked at the other day. Her throat bobs, and she jerks her gaze away, pausingat my boots. Same kind I’ve had since I was young, but these are newer—not softened by the farm or scuffed from a hard day’s work.
Personally, I prefer them worn and battered. Comfortable. But today, I tried. Today, I wanted to look good.
For the judge.
Georgia’s lips twitch, skin wrinkling around the edges of those grass-green eyes.
She laughing at me?
“You know? I think you’ve got it all wrong,” she murmurs, leaning in close, gaze locked on mine.
“What’s that?” I find myself mirroring her, the chair creaking under my weight as I fall forward.
She drops her voice so low, I have to share breath with her to catch her words.
There’s that damn smell again. Sweet, floral, a little wild, like something that grows where it shouldn’t but thrives anyway. This close, I can finally see her freckles.
Tiny little starbursts of distraction.
“I can barely stand the sight of youdressed, Mr. Archer,” she purrs, the sound so warm and intimate, my eyes fall closed.Goddamn, freckles.“Not sure anything else could possibly help.Shirtornoshirt.”
It takes me a second to register the insult and my gaze snaps to hers. My jaw tightens. I almost clap back, a cutting barb trapped in my throat, but before I can, the door swings open.
Thank fuck, too. Left to my own devices, I might have done something insane, like strip off my shirt just to prove a point.
We jolt away from each other like we just got caught with our hands down each other’s pants in church.
