Chapter Eight
One Month Notice
I shove my phone into my pocket and stare up at the old Wildwood courthouse, doing all I can not to pass out or run back to my truck.
For the last week, I’ve gone back and forth on whether or not to even show up. Thought about calling Georgia. Thought about calling the judge. Thought about saying to hell with the whole thing.
Once, yeah, I wanted all of it. A wife. A family. Bunch of kids running through the fields while my old man laughed from the porch.
But that dream died with him and got buried in the desert with me.
Still, I spent the last week reading everything I could find online, just in case.
What babies eat. How often they nap. Diapers and potty training. Milestones. Car Seats. Preschools, for fuck’s sake.
Turns out, they need a hell of a lot more than love.
They need structure. Safety. Stability.
A bedroom with four walls, at the very least.
None of which I’ve got.
The receptionist eyes me wearily as I step inside the lobby. “Kade Archer?”
My swallow sticks in my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“They’re waiting for you down at the end of the hall on the left.”
My feet feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, and my heart’s threatening to break a fucking rib, but I follow her directions, refusing to linger. I know if I stop, I might not go in at all.
The door’s cracked, and a soft conversation filters through it. Can’t make out what they’re saying, but I recognize both voices.
“This is it,” I murmur, squeezing my eyes shut. My knuckles pop from how hard my fists are clenched. “You’ve been to war. You can do this.”
Correction. I have to do this. For Marlee, and Aurora. For me.
A sweet laugh has my eyes snapping open.
Not the clipped, professional tone she’s used every time we’ve spoken. This is softer. Warm and real.
I inhale sharply, caught off guard by how it sounds—how it rolls over me. How it settles something sharp and frantic in my chest. I’m nervous as hell, seconds from bolting or throwing up, or both, but that laugh? It cuts through the noise in my head like sunlight through fog.
For a second, I let myself believe it. Let myself soak it in, soothe my nerves like the finest whiskey in South Dakota. Then I square my shoulders and step inside.
My boots echo against the linoleum as I walk through the door and all but ignore Georgia Walker as if she didn’t just heal me for a breath. I’m pretty sure if she caught my eye right now, she’d see everything I’m trying to hide.
So, I focus on the man I knew as a kid, but haven’t seen since high school.
Judge Romero is heavier than I remember, all gray hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He looks up from a stack of papers laid out on a small table, gives me a familiar smile, and pushes to stand.
Pulling my Stetson off, I hold it to my chest with one hand and extend the other like the polite man I need these people to think I am.
“Kade,” he says, his deep voice booming through the tiny room. I swallow hard, thankful it’s not a full court room. “It’s been a long damn time, son.”
“Good to see you, Frank.”
I shake his hand, firm, quick, then shove mine back into my pocket, and hope like hell he can’t tell how terrified I am right now. My hat stays off since I’m in proper company, but I clutch the damn thing like a lifeline.
“I’m sure sorry about these circumstances,” he says, voice low, hand squeezing my shoulder. “But glad you could be here today.”
I swallow hard. “Thank you, sir.”
He turns his attention to Georgia, and gives her a soft, almost fatherly smile. “Ms. Walker, I’ve gotta make a call in my office. We’ll get started soon.”
“Of course, Judge Romero,” she replies, all sugar and silk. “Take your time.”
I watch him disappear through the door, the latch clicking softly behind him.
And then it's just me and her. I take a slow breath, wait a beat, or five , and turn toward her, bracing for the sight of freckles and fire.
But all I find is frost.
I force a smile. Georgia looks away, ignoring me completely, and rolls her prim little shoulders back like a posh city girl too good for this town.
The hell’s that about?
When I walked in, she was laughing with Frank like they were old friends. Now, there’s not an ounce of the wildfire that burned through my apartment last week, or in my arms a few days ago. Just icy professionalism that grates on my nerves.
I shouldn't care. Hell, I shouldn’t even notice.
But I do.
Jaw ticking and temper flaring, I stalk over and drag out the chair right next to her— loudly —ignoring the perfectly good one across the table.
“Nice to see you, Ms. Walker.” My voice is a low rumble that’d scare the hide off a horse. She jumps, and on the inside, I’m fucking cheering. “Hope you haven't ruined anyone's day lately.”
Slow as fresh, sticky honey, she turns to face me, cocking her head to the side. “Excuse me?”
“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 another sorry , 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.
But fuck , 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, pausing at 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 you dressed , Mr. Archer,” she purrs, the sound so warm and intimate, my eyes fall closed. Goddamn, freckles. “Not sure anything else could possibly help. Shirt or no shirt .”
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.
“Alright, folks.” Frank claps with a wide grin as he settles in his chair. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”
Georgia straightens so fast it’s like someone pulled a string. Her expression shutters, mouth flattening into a tight, professional line. And me? I’m still trying to remember how to breathe without her scent invading my sinuses.
She taps something on her laptop, posture perfect, tone crisp. “Of course, Your Honor. I have the documentation ready.”
Frank waves her off.
“No need for formalities here. This isn’t a hearing, or the big city. We do things differently in Summit. Just a chance to sit down, go over what’s been filed, and make sure everyone’s on the same page for the sake of the baby.”
Everyone. Like we’re a team. Like I didn’t just meet her a week ago and spend most of that time wanting to slam the metaphorical door in her face.
Georgia clicks a pen. My eye twitches. “I’ve compiled my findings based on my initial intake, a home visit, and a conversation with the probate attorney’s assistant.”
Romero nods. “Go ahead, Ms. Walker.”
“If we’re being informal, you can call me Georgia.”
She shoots him a kind smile. My eyes narrow, and I shift uncomfortably.