Chapter Nine
It’s a reflex?
T he hospital doesn’t smell like bleach.
That’s the first thing I notice.
It smells like plastic. Like rubber gloves and old vending machine coffee and trauma.
It feels even worse. Or maybe it’s just me.
Georgia’s already waiting for me, leaning against the wall outside a room with fish stickers all over the door. Her arms are crossed, giant purse pressed to her chest.
Unlike the other day, her curls are free—a reckless mess of oranges, reds, and every color in between.
I swallow hard, unprepared for what the sight does to my senses.
My eyes slide down her body, taking her in.
She’s a hell of a lot more casual today, dressed in a long, flowy floral skirt that brushes the tops of her boots and sways when she crosses her ankles. A chunky cream sweater hangs loose over her frame, tucked slightly at the waist with a wide belt that draws my eyes straight to her curvy hips.
“Did you make the drive okay?” she asks, dragging my attention away from her body with a knowing look. “Rydell is farther than I realized. Took me forever to find the place the first time I came.”
I blink a few times, jaw ticking—pissed off I’ve been caught checking her out when it’s the last fuckin’ place my mind should be.
“Obviously. I’m here, aren’t I?” I shoot her a harsh look as I step into her space and cross my arms. Not close enough to smell her or go hunting for those damn freckles again, but close enough to catch the little crinkles next to her eyes when she glares at me.
“You don’t have to be such an ass,” she whisper-hisses, eyes darting toward the nurses’ station behind me like someone might overhear and write her up. “I was just asking a question.”
“A stupid one.” My brow lifts, daring her to argue.
Georgia scoffs and pushes away from the wall. “Maybe I was trying to make polite conversation, then.”
“Well, don’t,” I snap, dragging a hand through my hair. The moment my fingers hit my scalp, I wince.
Left my hat in the fuckin’ truck.
My dad always said it was bad luck for a gentleman to leave the house without his cowboy hat. Worse luck to forget it somewhere.
Not that I’m a gentleman, and I’m already swimming in bad luck, so I guess I’m just keeping the streak alive.
“Insufferable,” she mutters as she starts to pace. “Argumentative. Pig-headed. Emotionally constipated. Giant man-baby with stupid cow-shit cowboy boots and a stupid hat.”
My brows climb higher with each insult, and I don’t even try to hide the smirk forming. She’s not looking at me, just muttering toward the floor like she’s trying to curse me without getting fired.
She scoffs to herself and adds under her breath, “He probably snores like a freight train and chews with his mouth open, too.”
I step into her path, interrupting the one-woman diatribe, and lean in close, voice low and drawling. “You got somethin’ to say, darlin’? Feel free to say it to my face.”
She snaps her gaze up, cheeks flushed, caught off guard by how close I am. Her mouth opens—probably to deny it—but nothing comes out.
“Didn’t peg you for the type to fantasize about my sleeping habits…” My eyes drop to her lips. “Or what my mouth does.”
Her face goes full sunset-pink.
Bingo.
Pink is step one in unraveling Georgia.
“You’re impossible and so unbelievably unprofessional, Mr. Archer.”
“And you’re more fun when you’re flustered, Ms. Walker,” I murmur, winking as I step back, slow and satisfied. “Besides, you started it.”
She bites her lip, turning it bright red. I have the strange urge to tug it free.
“I didn’t know I said that out loud.”
My brows go high. “You didn’t know you were whispering non-sense about me?”
“I knew I was doing it in my head.” She looks away. “I ramble when I’m nervous.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We stare at each other for a long moment that only breaks when a nurse pushes past and steps through the door with the fish. My eyes snap up, following her as if I’ll catch a glimpse of what’s waiting for me on the other side as if it’ll somehow magically prepare me.
I hold my breath.
It opens and closes with a tiny click , and all I get is a peek of more bare walls and low lighting.
“She’s in there?” I ask, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Georgia says. Her eyes go wide, and she slaps a hand to her face so loud, I wince. “Shit, I mean, crap. I mean, I’m sorry.” She sighs. “Would you believe me if I said it’s a reflex?”
“To insult me?”
She lifts a shoulder and gives me an embarrassed smile. “Yes?”
I chuckle and shake my head. For some reason, her verbal diarrhea has me relaxing a bit.
“I am sorry, though,” she murmurs. “Yes, Aurora is in there. I spoke to the nurse on call while I was waiting. She said she’s been asleep for the last hour—and likely still is.”
“Is she—” I feel like I’m being choked to death. “Did they say what happened to her in the—” Fuck, just get it out. “The acc—”
“The accident?” she finishes gently.
I give a sharp nod.
She looks at me for a long second, like she’s trying to decide how much I can take. “Are you asking about the details of the accident? Or just Aurora’s status?”
Do I really want to know what killed Marlee? How it happened?
I know if I hear it, if I can picture it, it might wreck me. Not because I still love Marlee. But because I did . And because I’m standing here for her kid… and she’s not.
And never will be again.
But it’s Aurora’s story, and if this goes as planned, one day, I’ll have to tell her what happened to her parents. How her mama died.
That thought makes me nauseous.
“All of it,” I manage, voice shredded. “Like you’re ripping a Band-Aid off.”
Georgia’s lips press together, her eyes searching mine, but she gives one, sharp nod and sucks in a slow breath.
“From what the EMT report said, the car left the road just outside Langley. Hit a tree. Hard. The driver and passenger were both pronounced dead at the scene. We’re still waiting on the toxicology report.”
My chest caves inward.
“Aurora was in the backseat. Properly buckled into a rear-facing seat. That seat, and the angle of impact, is what saved her.”
The room sways, but I commit every word to memory.
“She has a concussion. Some bruising from the harness, and a few cuts from the glass. Worst was on her cheek. It’ll scar, but nothing serious.” She takes a breath. “There was a small brain bleed—”
Pretty sure my soul leaves my body. She must see the panic all over my face because she reaches out, grips my forearm, and squeezes hard as she rushes to finish.
“She didn’t need surgery, but they kept her in the pediatric ICU for observation.
” Georgia’s little fingers dig in, and she gives me a shake, drawing my gaze to hers.
“She hasn’t had any seizures, no vomiting since the second night.
Pain management’s the focus now. She’ll be okay, Kade. She’s healing.”
Healing .
Jesus.
I nod, slow and unsteady. She stares at me for a few more seconds then releases my arm. I feel the loss of it like air in a confined space. Like I’m drifting at sea alone.
“You okay?” she whispers.
I almost laugh but it comes out like a garbled cry. “No.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
My hands are clammy, fists clenched at my sides as I stare at the door like it might unhinge itself and swallow me whole. A long moment passes before she finally speaks, voice soft and sweet.
“You don’t have to be her everything all at once,” she murmurs. “You just have to go in and say hi.”
“Hi?” I shoot her a side glance. “I’m not ready for that.”
“No one’s ever ready.” She gives me a sad smile. “Even the parents who had nine months to plan. No one is ever ready to be a parent, even when they think they are.”
A parent? Fucking hell.
“Take your time,” she says, stepping away. “I’ve got a call to make anyway. I’ll be down the hall. When you’re ready… just go in and say hi, Kade. That’s all you have to do.”
She walks away, and I’m left with nothing but a pulsing heartbeat in my ears and a trembling breath in my lungs.
The door’s cracked open just enough that I can see the faint glow of machines inside. The fish stickers stare at me like they know I don’t fit in, and I barely resist the urge to flip them off.
But I step forward anyway.
Because Marlee died.
Because Georgia, Frank, and Aurora, are depending on me.
Because it’s what my dad would do.
Just say hi .