Chapter Thirty One
More Than a Weekend
T he scent of coffee’s what catches my senses first, followed by something sweet and warm. I reach out instinctively, patting the space around me like I’m still in a dream. But it’s empty.
I force my eyes open, the morning light soft and golden through the windows.
Getting up is easier than it’s been in years, maybe longer, and the reason why is notably missing from my side.
Didn’t have a nightmare last night.
Don’t know if it was having Georgia curled up in my arms, her soft breaths grounding me in a way no sedative ever could, or if it was the simple fact that I was bone-deep exhausted after spending the day wrapped around my girl. Either way, I slept like a damn baby.
I shift to a seated position, bare feet hitting the floor. The rug beneath me is warm and soft—so different from the old laminate I used to wake up to, it rattles something deep in my bones.
Christ, things have changed.
And they’ve changed fast.
My house. My job. My whole damn future.
Just a few months ago, I was living in a shell, detached and half dead on the inside.
Now, I’m waking up in a home I’m building from the ground up, waiting on the arrival of a little girl who’s about to change my life.
Aurora could be here as soon as today, depending on how fast the paperwork from Ethel’s office is cleared.
I emailed it back last week as soon as we hung up, and she promised once everything was processed, she'd pick Aurora up and bring her to me.
If Georgia hadn’t been here this weekend, distracting me, making me laugh and groan and lose my fuckin’ mind in all the best ways, I probably would’ve driven myself insane waiting.
And Georgia...
Tried to go slow. Tried to keep my thoughts to myself and my mouth shut, but then she was sick and in my house, wearin’ nothing but my shirt, a weary expression and bare feet, and I was done for.
Couldn’t stand to see her hurting, or upset. Couldn’t stand the thought of her being unwell because of something I did, even if she swore up and down it wasn’t my fault.
And once I started taking care of her—really taking care of her—there was no going back. It wasn’t just about making her feel better. It was about making sure she never had to do it alone again.
Didn’t plan it. Didn’t even see it happening.
But somewhere between blow drying her hair and holding her while she slept… she became everything .
She doesn’t even realize how fast she’s become the brightest part of my day.
It’s terrifying.
And it’s the most alive I’ve felt in years.
Shaking my head, I drag my gaze across the living room. My brows crash together, pulse ticking up. Everything’s as we left it last night—blanket tossed over the couch, pillows askew from where she passed out on top of me while we watched some old sitcom, but it’s too quiet.
Standing up with a groan, I stretch out my chest and arms as I make my way around the house, calling out her name as I go.
I come up empty, but I find every room just as clean as the living room, and something about it sets my nerves haywire.
It’s like every sign of her is gone… erased.
Fuckin’ hate it.
Only proof I know it wasn’t all a dream is the folded-up shirt she wore yesterday lying on my bed.
Possessive bastard that I am, I grab the thing and bring it to my nose.
All I smell is my body wash and the curl cream I used in her hair—but underneath that is her.
That soft, wild scent I can’t name. Something I’ve come to crave.
After the intense round of back-to-back orgasms, my fingers buried deep inside her, mouth wrapped around every inch of her sweet pussy, my girl passed out on my chest.
I let her rest as long as I could, but we were both a mess, and she still needed to be looked after.
I’d carefully rolled her onto the couch and stepped away to shower quickly, not wanting to leave her alone for too long.
But I needed a minute to myself. Needed a minute to wrap my mind…
. my fuckin’ heart , around what was happening between us.
She let me care for her.
Let me in.
Never thought I’d want this again. Not after Marlee. Not after what that kind of love cost me. I swore I’d never let anyone past the wall I built the day I re-upped my contract.
And I lasted for over a damn decade, but then Georgia burst into my life, vicious and burning and unafraid to meet me exactly as I am—broken and angry and bitter and a fuckin’ mess.
She saw it all and took me on, pushed me, pulled me, and dragged me right over that fuckin’ line I’d drawn in the sand back in the desert and fuck, I think I dragged her right over it with me.
After my shower, I lifted her soft, sleepy body up and bathed her, bringing her to two more half-awake, quiet orgasms in the tub.
All day, we lazed on the couch, watching TV, relaxing, talking about everything and nothing while I smothered her with questions. Asked her about her family, and how her search for answers has gone. What she's found, and about her life in foster care.
Asked her what she does for fun, why she became a social worker, and what her favorite food is. And when she was sleepy, and passing out on my chest, I kept going, desperate for everything I could find out about this damn woman. I’m fuckin’ greed for it.
Even after all we talked about, I still want more.
It’s a sickness and I… don’t really give a fuck.
Sighing, I drop her shirt on my pillow and get dressed quickly. Her keys are gone from the entry table, so she probably left for work like she said she would. Thank fuck I brought her Jeep here after the bar.
Still stings that she didn’t wake me.
The smell of coffee pulls me toward the kitchen, and I stop short when I spot a plate covered in foil next to the stove and a folded note tucked just beneath it.
My heart stutters, skips a beat, and picks back up at a dangerous pace. Don’t know if it’s the product of seeing a note written in feminine scrawl with my name etched across the top or the clear heart drawn at the bottom, but the room blurs out of focus for a beat.
Shaking my head with a huff, I snatch the note up and my lips lift in a grin that quickly falls.
Kade,
I didn’t want to wake you. You looked too peaceful.
And when you still didn’t wake up, despite the banging around in your kitchen ten feet away, I figured you needed the rest. Thank you for taking care of me this weekend.
It means more than you know. Also, your stomach was growling while you slept, so I made you breakfast. All I could find were supplies for pancakes, but I couldn’t try them, so, sorry if they suck and super sorry if you get food poisoning.
Talk soon, Georgia
My stomach sours, heart clenching, as I slip the note into an empty kitchen drawer and unwrap the plate. A stack of thick, fluffy pancakes sits on a dish I didn’t buy—one that showed up during that wild day the town came together for me.
Who shows up for Georgia like that?
They all donated, bought, and celebrated me doing the bare minimum for a little girl who deserves the world. And Georgia…
Does anyone see her? See how much she struggles just to find a fuckin’ meal every day? Does anyone see how hard she works—at her job, at life—all by herself?
That same painful pit that opened up the other night at my mom’s shows up again, sharp and nauseating.
She deserves a community to rally around her—everyone fuckin’ does—but Georgia? I think she might need it more than most.
And I wanna be the one to give it to her.
That thought in mind, I roll up one of the pancakes and shove it in my mouth, food poisoning be damned. It’s sweet, and perfectly cooked, making my decision all the more easier.
During our long talk, Georgia said she loves to bake. Said baking looked different after her diagnosis, but she never stopped trying. Fact that she can’t even try a fuckin’ pancake in my house means baking here will be hard for her… and it doesn’t have to be.
Pouring a cup of coffee, I sip on it while scrolling my phone for gluten-free baking shopping lists.
Once I find a comprehensive one with tips for keeping it safe and not cross-contaminating anything, I head off to Amazon.
May be in the cuts out here, but we still get packages delivered to a stop in town.
I drop onto a barstool and spend hours researching, filling my cart, and eventually, checking out, all while eating the food she sweetly cooked for me, knowing damn well she couldn’t have any.
While I was reading, I found articles about keeping items separate in the house, even down to pots, pans, seasonings, and sauces.
One of them suggested having an entirely separate drawer, color-coded if possible, for everything gluten-free. Another mentioned storing gluten-free baking ingredients above the standard ones to prevent dust contamination.
So I do it.
I clear out the bottom cupboards under the island and move all my baking and cooking shit there. I’d toss it, but it’s new, donated from friends and family, and I’m sure with Aurora here, I’ll need regular supplies, but I don’t bake, so they get tucked away.
After moving everything for Aurora to the left, I designate the right side for Georgia, leaving Post-its marked with a G on every door. When that’s done, I shoot a text to Clem to ask if she still has that dumb label maker she used to tag everything in her room.
By the time I’m done, there’s space for whatever’s on the way—new baking trays, measuring cups, mixers, gluten-free flours and sugars and syrups in sealed containers. I even cleaned the damn toaster and added a second one to my Amazon cart just to be safe. Separate tongs. Separate cutting boards.
Hell, I even spring for a new spatula set just so hers never touches something that could hurt her again.
She deserves that.
Deserves a space where she doesn’t have to second-guess everything, where she can bake without fear, eat without thinking, and live without worrying she’s about to get sick.
Once everything’s organized, I open the back door for some air and sit at the table, coffee in hand, scrolling through articles on wheat sensitivity.
One link leads to another, and pretty soon I’m reading about airborne gluten exposure during harvest. Some people get sick from walking through fields during peak bloom.
Others react just from being downwind and some are just fine.
Shit.
My gut twists. Wheat won’t be harvested for months—not till August, maybe late July if it’s an early year, and I’ll be out there helping when it’s time. Hell, I’ll be out there before that. When the heads start to ripen—when the pollen lifts off in the heat.
I glance toward the open window, the fields stretching green and endless in the distance.
Is that gonna be safe for her? Is this place gonna make her sick?
I don’t know. Not yet. But I’ll find out. And if it’s not—I’ll figure it out. Do whatever it takes to make her okay. Because stupid as it may be, as fast it feels, I want Georgia here. And I’ll move fucking mountains to make sure she stays.
All that done, I stand, stretch out my legs, and make my way toward Aurora’s room.
The door creaks a little as I open it—still new, freshly painted, and smelling faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and baby powder. Light spills in from the hallway, casting soft shadows over the pale yellow walls and the rainbow mural on the far one. My chest tightens instantly.
Still can’t believe this was all Georgia.
Sure, I know my family had a hand in stocking the room with gear.
Gemma bragged about the play mat and fully stocked toy box she picked. Colby and Clementine were over Saturday morning, organizing baby books on the cloud shelves I hung.
And my mom… practically had to drag her out of her when I left for the bar with the guys.
But the soft things? The details? The night-lights in every outlet, the cozy curtains, the matching bee-patterned sheets and mobile, the way everything smells clean and warm—like lavender and love?
That’s all her.
And she didn’t do it for credit. She didn’t even tell me until I walked in and saw it.
She did it for Aurora.
For me .
I move slowly, reverently, like I’m in a church. My fingers ghost over the bee-print crib sheets, then up to the soft hanging mobile. Bees with little smiling faces spin lazily in the breeze from the cracked window. My throat closes around the sudden pressure that builds behind my ribs.
This room is perfect.
It’s ready for Aurora
And, God, I think I am, too.
I’ve missed Aurora for the last three weeks—a deep ache in my chest that shouldn’t be possible, but it’s there.
Thought about her every damn day, worried and stressed over how she’s doing with the foster family. Blew up Ethel’s phone more times than I can count, just to check on her. All she could say was that Aurora’s teething up a storm, and to be prepared.
My eyes land on the car seat in the corner. Still in the box. The sight sobers me, reminds me that no matter how perfect this room is, the second I strap that seat into my truck… everything changes.
Her life’s about to be in my calloused hands.
I pull out my phone.
First instinct is to Google a video tutorial, make sure I don’t fuck it up, but instead, my thumb hovers over the number I know by heart. One I’ve called countless times over the last six weeks.
I don’t even have to look.
Breath in my throat, eyes squeezed shut, I press call, bring the phone to my ear, and lay my soul on the line.