Chapter Six #2
She just smiles wider, pleased as pie.
“No, you know what?” My hands land on my hips as indignation rolls through me. “I’m going in there. Whoever the dude is, he’s done for, so say goodbye to your little boyfr—” Another gag. I choke on my next breath and she cackles—actually laughs so hard, she cries.
“You’re so cute, son,” she coos. “But you’re not going inside. You’re not going to do a damn thing, and we both know it.”
“I’m putting you in a convent right after I kick his ass.” I try to move her gently, but she plants the heels of her worn boots like she’s bracing for battle. “Move it, Ma.”
“You can’t!” she whisper-hisses, shoving me away. “No one’s allowed in the knitting club but knitting club members!”
Before I can do something insane, like physically remove my own mother by force, someone slams into my side hard enough to send me stumbling a few steps.
A moment later, icy-cold seeps through my white T-shirt.
“What the fuck?” I spin toward the offender just as a plastic cup bounces off my chest and rolls under my truck.
The woman’s got one hand clutched around a phone, the other still hovering like she meant to stop the spill and failed. My mouth opens to snap at her, but then our gazes lock.
And my brain short circuits.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Wide, green eyes flare—brighter in the daylight than I remember. She looks like she’s about to apologize, but then… recognition, irritation. And a flash of something hotter, low and dangerous, before it cools to pure frost.
Her giant bag’s sliding off her shoulder, dragging an oversized black sweater with it, exposing an expanse of creamy skin and freckles I shouldn’t be drawn to, but am.
And that just pisses me the hell off.
I tilt my head back, glaring at the sky like it’s the one to blame, and mutter, “Anything else you wanna throw at me today, dickwad?”
Georgia Walker scoffs loud and exaggerated, snagging my attention. She’s clutching her phone tighter—like she might chuck it at me next—and the words I fucking dare you , almost slip free from my dry throat.
“ You ran into me !” she chokes out, her vision raking down my drenched shirt. “And you spilled my coffee!”
“I was standing still,” I growl, tugging the offending material away from my skin. “And now I’m soaked in whatever overpriced, too-sweet bullshit you’re drinking.”
“ Was drinking. Now it’s gone because you were rooted like an overgrown tree in the middle of the sidewalk,” she snaps, her cheeks burning bright red. “All giant arms and cowboy boots and— and —” Her eyes flick to my hair, my boots, my general existence. “ Broody !”
“I don’t brood,” I grumble.
She arches a perfect brow and points at me. “You’re brooding right now.”
I cross my arms, tension coiling tight through my shoulders as I take her in—messy bun, more freckles than I’d originally thought, that fierce little chin lifted like she’s ready to fight me.
There’s a splash of coffee on her jaw and a fallen curl bouncing loose around her face, softening all those sharp, sarcastic edges.
The urge to reach in, to wipe the coffee off and do something idiotic like taste it, is intense, but I shove that shit down where I bury all the inconveniences in my life.
Woman’s trouble dressed in tight jeans and curves.
Much as I hate to admit it, today's outfit looks damn good on her. Hell of a lot better than the stuffy suit, though the heels did snag my eyes more than once.
Still, she’s rude, stuck-up, and out of place.
Georgia Walker belongs in a city. Big buildings, shiny cars, endless crowds—somewhere she can judge people from behind a desk instead of on my porch.
Everything about her screams polished, professional, not from here. Just another city girl playing country for the weekend, counting the minutes until she can get back to her real life and the fuck out of mine.
We have a silent stare off that results in my jaw ticking and my palms sweating, so I tuck them into my pockets. She follows the movement.
Her eyes don’t come back up.
Rolling back on my boots, my lips lift in a cocky-as-shit grin, because apparently, fucking with Georgia Walker and pissing her off is my new favorite pastime.
“Eyes up here, darlin’ .”
Don’t know where the heavy accent comes from, maybe I’m emulating Griff’s Tennessee drawl, but it makes her blush, and I love the look of it.
She jolts her gaze to mine, and every inch of her is all wildfire.
“Nice to see you’re still as welcoming as a rattlesnake,” she snaps, shouldering her bag higher. “And don’t call me that. As I said before, it’s condescending and unprofessional.”
“Professional, huh?” I drag my tongue over my lip and scoff. “You’re doin’ a mighty fine job of being professional all by yourself—” I tack on, all slow and dramatic, “ Darlin’ .”
“You’re so right. I must have lost my manners somewhere back in the beer can graveyard .” She presses a hand to her chest and rolls her lip in a poisonous pout. “So sorry about your shirt, Mr. Archer. Maybe try vinegar and a prayer.”
My mouth opens to tell her exactly what she can do with her vinegar when a voice purrs from behind me, setting my flight-or-fight instincts on high alert.
“And who might this be?”
Oh, fucccck.
My palm slaps against my face, knocking the brim of my cap to the side and I groan, long and low.
I forgot about her.
I forgot about my own mother.
Oh, my God.
Am I seriously sporting a half-wood in front of my mother ?!
Better yet, why the fuck am I even hard right now? I can’t stand the red-headed woman. Yeah, she’s hot as hell—and okay, I love the way she’s not afraid to go toe-to-toe with me—but she’s rude and stuck-up.
It’s annoying, not attractive.
“Um,” Georgia says, clearing her throat and bringing me back down to reality. “I’m—”
“She’s no one,” I blurt, way too fast, way too brash. Georgia blinks, cheeks flushed, and looks away.
I could feel bad, but I don’t, because I’m not ready for my mom to know about— everything , anything .
“Don’t be so rude. I raised you better than that, Kade Archer!” Mom smacks my soaked stomach like she’s swatting a mosquito and turns to Georgia. “Are you a friend of my son’s?”
Her delicate throat bobs as she glances at me with questions in her eyes. I shake my head once while silently screaming, no.
No, she doesn’t know.
No, I’m not ready to tell her.
No, you may not ruin her day like you did mine, even though I know it’s your favorite pastime.
Clearly, she can’t read my mind, though, because she steps forward and thrusts her little hand out like she’s running for fucking office. “My name is Georgia. It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Archer.”
My mom’s face lights up, bright and beaming. “Well, aren’t you just the cutest little thing?”
I swear to Jesus, if she boops her nose, I’m out of here.
“Thank you!” Georgia beams right back, and the sight of it’s enough to knock me on my ass. She winks at my mom, and I gape in shock. “I certainly try, ma’am.”
“Oh, and so well-spoken too, but call me Bea.” Her smile drops, and she gives me an accusatory look. “Kade, you didn’t say anything about having such a darling friend .”
“I didn’t say anything because she’s not a friend, she’s—” I choke, scowl, and stop myself before I say a liability to my life.
“Do you work with Kade?” Mom leans forward and brushes that stray curl from Georgia's face like she’s already planning the wedding menu and what our babies will look like.
“Something like that,” Georgia says softly, her voice honeyed and suspiciously innocent. Her throat bobs again, and I’m stuck on the sight of it.
The sight of her .
Here, in the sunshine. Here, in my presence. Here, in my hometown… with my mother who’s still touching her.
Why is she touching her?
I can’t stop staring at Georgia. Her lashes are long. Her smile is lethal. And those dimples? I’m sure they’ve killed a man before.
But her freckles?
Her freckles are a goddamn trap.
“We don’t work together,” I clarify, my tone rough as hell. I clear my throat, and Georgia watches. It’s annoying. I flash my mom a fake smirk. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Then why do you look so squirrely?” Mom gasps, gesturing between the two of us. “Do you two have a little office romance going on?”
“Mom,” I strangle out. “Christ. I don’t even have an office.”
“Right,” she huffs. “You work from that cesspit you call a home.”
Georgia’s eyes flick between us like she’s cataloging everything. I see the gears turning. I also see the moment she realizes I haven’t told Mom a damn thing.
Beatrice Archer turns back to her, completely charmed, forgetting me altogether.
“Are you new in town, sweetheart? I can’t say I’d forget meeting you before.”
But you’d wish like hell you could.
Georgia twitches like the attention physically hurts her. “Uh, yeah. I just moved here.”
My mouth opens to end this conversation, the urge to get in my truck and haul ass back to my cesspit is nearly too much to resist, but something stops me.
Slaps my jaw shut. My feet shift against my will, tugging me a step closer, and my ears tune in a bit harder, like I give a damn what Georgia’s life story is or something.
“How lovely! What brought you to Heart Springs?” my mom asks.
Georgia glances at me and bites her thick bottom lip, hesitating a moment.
Does she not want me to know? She looks so uncomfortable I almost crow with glee and make a show of settling in for story time.
How’s it feel to be the one on display, freckles?
“I just needed a change,” she finally murmurs, staring at her feet.
My brows draw tight. Pretty sure she’s lying.
“Well,” Mom says warmly, reaching out to touch her arm. I narrow my eyes at the connection. “How do you like it so far?”
“I haven’t really been downtown until today,” she admits, gaze flicking around. I expect her to curl her lip, to scoff at the rundown town. Instead, she smiles warmly. “But it’s beautiful, and the air is so fresh compared to New York.”
“Is that where you’re from?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.