Chapter Four
Who died? Oh.
T he man before me grips the frame with one hand, the other braced against the door as if he might slam it in my face at any second. His barrel chest rises and falls rapidly, like he ran here.
Or maybe he’s just exhausted from carrying around so many muscles.
Messy brown hair falls to his broad shoulders, and a beard any lumberjack would envy covers what I’m certain is a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
He’s built like a linebacker, with a trail of dark hair leading from his pecs to a place I absolutely refuse to let my eyes linger.
Black tattoos snake over his chest and shoulder, their details impossible to make out without risking my employment— or my dignity .
As if he knows exactly where my mind is, his full lips flicker with the ghost of a smirk as he shifts his legs, widening his stance. And like the weak trollop I am, my eyes drop.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
The gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips are a problem.
A big one.
Especially when they show off the kind of V-cut that deserves its own zip code.
My mouth is so dry, I feel like I’m choking on sand.
I’m supposed to be professional and composed. But all my training apparently flew out the window the second he opened the door, because the only coherent thought in my head is, I’m God's favorite today .
His gaze drags lazily from my face, down the length of my buttoned-up blazer, pausing briefly at the ridiculous heels I immediately regret wearing.
Then, just as slowly, his stormy-gray eyes travel back up, a rough, deliberate inspection that leaves my skin tingling and my brain scrambling for words.
Speak, Georgia. Say something. Anything.
“Hi.” My voice squeaks, and my thoughts flatline. I clear my throat, attempting to recover. “I mean, I’m Walker. Georgia Walker.”
Holy shit. Was that a Bond reference?
My eyes widen as I rush out, “From the county. Not the state. Or the government, technically. Just…”
Just what, Georgia?
“Official business,” I answer myself because I’ve truly lost the fucking plot now.
His thick brows lift, and I can tell he’s trying to not laugh. Humiliation burns through me, hot and fast, making my hackles rise.
“Official, huh?”
I nod once, internally berating myself for suddenly becoming a pile of useless goo on this man's doorstep.
Okay, so, he’s hot as hell in that way no one ever truly expects to see in real life. The kind of muscular and rugged that only exists in books. But I have a master’s degree, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been on my own my entire life.
I refuse to be bested by a silver-flecked beard and gray sweatpants.
Shoving my shoulders back, I smooth my blazer and pretend he’s not exactly the type of man who I’d let ruin me in any other situation.
I’m angry that he has this effect on me just by simply existing, and I force myself to hold onto the irritation.
“Like I said,” I state, keeping my tone flat, effectively blocking out the last two minutes. They never happened. “My name is—”
“Walker. Georgia Walker,” he quips, and I briefly consider throwing myself over the balcony railing. His gaze flicks over my face before sliding back to my shoes. “Whatever she’s paying you, it’s not enough.”
“I …what ?” My brows furrow.
He scoffs, voice deep and rumbling. “Look, I know Agnes well enough to know she’s cheap as hell. If she told you I’m footing the bill, she’s out of her damn mind.”
My mind races, trying to put together the puzzle I can’t quite make out. “Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m from Summit County Social Services, not—” I wave a hand through the air, mentally cataloguing his words again, and gape when they finally register.
“Wait, do you think…” I swallow, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Do you think I’m some kind of sex-gram ?”
His head tilts. “Sex-gram? Never heard it called that before, but sure. We’ll go with that.”
It's then that I notice the glazed look in his squinting eyes, the bags beneath them. He looks like he just woke up from a three-day bender. I inhale discreetly, and sure enough, beneath the woodsy, masculine scent I assume is his cologne or body wash, is the tang of liquor.
Maybe he’s still on said bender.
I glance behind his hulking form, taking in the messy apartment. My eyes land on an empty whiskey bottle next to the couch, surrounded by beer cans, confirming my suspicions.
Sighing, I make a note in the file. I hate dealing with drunks.
But hot ones who immediately assume I’m a stripper are a whole new bag of fun.
“What are you writing?” he barks, making me jump. “I told you; I don’t want whatever Agnes—”
“Agnes has nothing to do with this!” I hiss, irritated as hell. “I told you. I’m from Social Services. I’m here for a home inspection.”
His whole face scrunches, body stilling, before he glances over my shoulder where he stares for so long, I worry he’s fallen asleep standing up.
“Never seen a state worker drive a Beamer,” he mutters, lip curling. “Try that lie again, darlin’.”
I pat my chest, looking for my lanyard, and wince when I realize I forgot to put it on.
“Don’t call me that, it’s condescending.” I slip my badge from my bag and hang it between us, brow cocked. “Here.”
“What the hell is that?” he rumbles.
“I can read it to you if the liquor’s blurring your vision.”
His shoulders square. “Look, ma’am. I don’t know what the hell your problem is, or why you’re at my doorstep right now hissing at me like some kind of pissed-off, feral cat—”
My jaw drops.
“—but you can take your high horse and ride it straight into a tornado.”
Don’t say it, Georgia. Don’t say it.
“Do you mean ride off into a sunset ?” I blurt.
“I said what I said.”
My mouth falls open. “That’s insane.”
“It’s metaphorical.”
“It’s a cry for help, is what it is.”
We stare at each other, both breathing hard, both radiating heat that has nothing to do with the argument.
“You done?” he asks after a beat, voice lower now.
“Not even close,” I whisper-hiss, much like the feral cat he claimed me to be.
He exhales sharply. “And you’re here because…?”
Well, I’m officially over this exhausting conversation. I drape my badge around my neck and tug my hair free.
“You are, in fact, Kade Archer, correct?” I can hear the pissed-off reply forming on his tongue, but I don’t have the time—or the energy—to deal with it, so I cut him off like he did me. “All I need is a nod. Yes, or no?”
His jaw ticks, and a vein pops up, pulsing across the side of his annoyingly thick neck, but he jerks a nod.
Thank fuck.
“Great.” I shoot him a beaming smile and gesture to the pigsty behind him. “Then, please, by all means. Invite me into your lovely home so we can get on with it.”
He jerks away from the door, steps forward, and crosses his arms, as if to physically bar me entrance from his house. I glare up at him.
Even in my heels, the man’s tall. Really tall.
And frustratingly broad .
“Not happening.”
“Mr. Archer, this is a court-ordered assessment. I’m not playing games or simply standing here for you to glare at. If you’re denying me entrance—”
He cuts me off with a scoff.
“Are you always this serious?” His stormy eyes sweep over me. “And why are you dressed like you run a funeral home? Who died?”
Icy disdain pulses through me at the flippant tone. I may not know much about the case yet, but it’s a tragedy. A baby girl lost her parents, her mother . And now the child is in the hospital.
Alone.
“Marlee and Travis Vernal,” I state flatly. “That’s who died. So, show a little respect, please.”
The smirk vanishes.
For a moment, he looks as if I’ve slapped him. His mouth opens, but no words come out. True pain washes across his features, so thick, so heavy and deep, it punches me right in the chest.
Why does he look like he has no idea what I’m talking about?
The urge to flip through my measly file is intense, but I’ve already studied it front to back. No one said a damn word about me being the one to tell the next of kin their loved one died. That’s not supposed to be my job.
It only gets worse when he croaks, “Marlee Vernal?” He shakes his head, throat bobbing with an audible swallow. “I don’t know who—”
Oh, shit. Maybe she’s recently married. The child is young. I quickly check the file and thankfully, her maiden name is listed on the death record. “Marlee Parker and her husband—”
“ When ?”
His broken question makes my eyes burn and my chest constrict.
“Six days ago,” I say, voice tight. “There was a car accident. Marlee and Travis succumbed to their injuries, but their daughter is still in the hospital.”
I search his storm-cloud gaze, seeing nothing but pain and devastation there. The drunken asshat from moments ago is gone, and in his place, there’s only heartbreak.
“You didn’t know.” It’s not a question when I already know the answer.
“No. I haven’t seen Marlee in ten years.”
Ten years? Why would he be listed as the guardian in the will if he’s clearly not a part of their lives? Though, I suppose he could be lying.
“I… I thought you’d been notified,” I say quietly, my mind racing.
What the hell have I walked into here? I’ve never had to notify someone that their loved one passed before.
My next words are more to myself than Kade. “You should have been notified.”
“No. Nobody told me.” He drags a rough hand down his face.
My stomach sinks, and I suddenly feel like I’m going to puke.
God, and I’m not even done.
Swallowing hard, I say softly, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Acher, but there’s more.”
His bloodshot eyes lock onto mine, his chest rising and falling like he’s bracing for impact. Like I haven’t already wrecked his world.
“You were named in the will,” I say carefully, my hands trembling. “As the guardian of her daughter.”
He flinches. “What?”
“Aurora Grace Vernal. She’s eight months old.”
Kade stares at me with a blank expression for so long, I consider checking his pulse. I can’t even imagine what’s going through his head right now.
But when he simply utters an empty no , my sympathy wanes.