Chapter Eighteen
Grief Is a Hell of an Aphrodisiac
I sway forward, grabbing the doorframe at the last second to keep from stumbling.
While I’m still trying to steady my breath, Kade steps back and moves into the dim hallway. His body is rigid, cheeks flushed, and eyes suspiciously glossy.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s just as turned on as I am. But that can't be right. He just said all that to fuck with me. To make me feel stupid for prying.
He smiles and shoots me a wink, pointing to the hall behind him.
“You wanna see the whole house before my mom comes hunting for you, you better hurry up, Ms. Walker.” His eyes slide down my body slowly before coming back up to my lips, where they stay. “Wouldn’t want her to interrupt anything, would you?”
I’m so wet, I’m pretty sure there’s a spot seeping through my jeans. And this man—this arrogant, asshole of a man—he’s unbothered . Flirting and winking like this is normal, and not a complete mindfuck.
What is even happening right now?
Is this house some kind of aphrodisiac I’m unaware of?
I need to call Abby— immediately . Surely, there’s something otherworldly going on. Maybe she did some sort of grumpy cowboy catnip spell or put pheromones in my luggage before I left.
“Holy shit,” I choke out, shaking my head. “You… that… ” My hands wave through the air, and I stomp past him, shoving him out of the way as I shout, “That was so, so completely inappropriate!”
And because I’m really fucking thrown, and confused, and horny , I shoot him a glare and add, “You’re annoying, and I hate you.”
He nods his head solemnly. “Right back at ya, darlin’.”
I’m half-feral as I make my way through the last two rooms, the air thick and heavy with whatever the hell just happened back there.
One room is obviously the master—larger than the others, with perfectly placed beams in the arch overhead and uncovered floors beneath my bare feet. But it’s the smaller room tucked just beside it with an adjoining door that makes me pause.
If even a single word of his unholy sex-monologue had a shred of truth to it, I assume it was built to be a nursery.
And the fact that he said it’s Aurora’s room hits even harder, because out of all the rooms he could have picked, he put her right next to him, which is so perfectly sweet, my ovaries actually swoon.
Kade follows close behind, his presence brushing along my back like static. We reach the final room—an oversized bathroom attached to the master—and I stop dead in my tracks.
“This is beautiful,” I choke out.
It looks nearly finished—a double vanity, beautiful mosaic tile floors in black, white and marble that match the rest of the room perfectly. There’s a black arched window that’s massive, overlooking the same field as the back of the house, but in here, it feels grander somehow, almost magical.
It’s the kind of window you stare out of and dream .
I step forward, pointing at the wide, open space beneath it.
“You need to find the biggest soaker tub you can get your hands on,” I demand as jealousy bubbles up my throat. “This window deserves to be stared out of.”
He steps up beside me, close enough that the heat of him seeps into my skin, but he’s careful not to touch me again.
I can’t tell if I’m sad or happy about it.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I designed the room around the view. It’ll look out on the flower fields all summer and into fall.”
I turn to him, eyes wide. “ You designed this house?”
His expression tightens, mouth twitching like the question annoys him.
“Where’d you think it came from?”
“A designer?” I murmur. “A contractor your family hired. Isn’t that what most people do?”
“Most people aren’t Archers.” He huffs, gaze flicking back to the window like it’s safer than looking at me. “I assume you noticed the sign you drove under to get here.”
“Of course I did,” I hiss. “I’m not blind. I just figured this was an extra house on the property you claimed for the sake of the guardianship case.”
Kade scoffs, tugging off his cap and running a hand through his messy hair. “You would think that, city girl.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He gives me a look like I’ve missed the punchline of a very obvious joke. I glare right back.
“There are no random buildings on an active ranch, darlin’.
Every single one, every field, barn, and silo—they all serve a purpose.
Those fences you drove by? They’re not decoration.
They keep cattle rotating through pasture so the land doesn’t die.
The trees along the ridge? They’re a windbreak and shade for the livestock when we lease out the land.
The flat patch near the creek is where we plant winter wheat.
The low barn by the road is for sick animals, and the shed behind it stores our beekeeping gear.
Without all that, this place wouldn’t run half as well as it does. ”
I knew it , I think, almost dazed. He’s a cowboy. A real one.
“But you built this particular house?”
“With my dad,” he says, and his throat bobs with the words. “He helped all of us build our dream homes.”
“That’s incredibly sweet,” I say, barely above a whisper, my eyes burning.
I glance out the window, my mind swimming with what-ifs.
What if my mom had stayed in her hometown and had me here, instead of alone in West Virginia? Would I have wound up with a kind, loving family like the Archers? Or with someone like that sweet man down at the farmers market?
Would my dad have shown up—swooped in to save me from a life of uncertainty, unanswered questions, and bone-deep loneliness?
And the hardest question, the impossible one that never ceases to plague me— what if she never would have died at all?
Would I have been happy here? Loved and adored. Would I have grown up surrounded by bees, and horses, and sun-drenched fields of wildflowers instead of packed bags, foster placements, and that cold, hollow ache I could never quite shake?
A long silence stretches between us, thick with things neither of us is brave enough to say, until he finally breaks it, taking my breath right along with him.
“I joined the Army before mine was done,” he murmurs. “Always figured I’d finish it when I got out. But I was different. The war, shit that happened over there…”
He stiffens, and I get the sudden urge to hold his hand again, but I stop myself, not wanting to destroy this little corner of vulnerability we’ve carved out.
“It fucked me up,” he continues. “Changed me. But the shit that happened back here while I was gone? It destroyed me. Didn’t see much sense in building something meant for happiness and dreams when I was nothing but sand and ash by the time I came home.”
He tugs on his hair again, jaw clenched as he finally looks at me. His eyes are hollowed, haunted, and the weight of that sadness nearly knocks me off my feet.
My mind flashes back to everything he told me in that courthouse. I’d been so irrationally angry at Marlee for what she did to him—for leaving him, for ending things while he was thousands of miles away, risking his life, planning their future, unsafe and alone.
She broke his heart, that was clear as day—written all over his face.
I’d be lying if I said a big part of me hasn’t wondered if his commitment to all this—to Aurora and gaining custody, is because he still loves her.
The rational part of me says it doesn’t matter what his motives or feelings for a dead woman are, but she was his first love, and judging by his story, Kade loved Marlee in a big, deep kind of way. A forever kind of way.
Does that feeling ever really leave you?
I know I still think about my first boyfriend, Stephen Tillby, every once and a while.
I was nineteen, in my second year of college, and I think I loved him—as much as I’ve ever let myself love another person.
Eventually, he ended things, said I never really opened myself up to him.
Maybe he was right, or maybe we were just never meant to be.
Kade and Marlee, though…
That was a lifetime's worth of love cut too short in a letter while he was worlds away, and then again in a tragic accident.
He turns, facing me, and steps closer. “Tell me somethin’.”
My throat tightens. “What?”
“Why’s it easier to talk about this shit when you’re around?” His eyes flit between mind, burning and glazed, like a storm raging and cresting, all at once. “It’s been years, and I can’t talk to anyone about… before .”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, heart hammering wildly. My brain is begging me to run away while my body is screaming to close the distance between us.
“You know what I think?” he says, fingers brushing mine. “I think it’s because you’ve seen wars, too. Might not have been as bloody as mine, but just as painful, just as destructive.”
His eyes burn into mine, a storm of grief, heat, and history I’m desperate to know, but can’t ask for, can’t carry, when I’m not ready to give any of mine.
Too close. We’re too close.
I suck in a breath and take a quick step back. My body immediately loathes the distance, and that right there, tells me all I need to know.
I’m not just proud of him for stepping up. I don’t just find him attractive and annoying in the best way.
I like being around him.
I like sparring with him, flirting and arguing.
Worse—I like him.
He glares at me like he hates the distance just as much as I do. “What just happened?”
“What?” I clear my throat and force my face into the blank, expressionless mask I’ve worn for way longer than I’ve been a social worker. “Nothing.”
It’s easier this way.
I hike a thumb over my shoulder, letting cold condescension seep into my voice while actively ignoring the hurt, confused look on his too-handsome face.
“Anyway, you definitely need a good tub. Unless you country boys like to bathe in buckets.”
With that, I brush past him, forcing my breaths into something easy and calm.
I need to get the hell out of here. I need to find Bea, tell her I’m sorry but I don’t feel well, and I’ll be back next weekend.