Chapter Thirty Three #2
His eyes snap open, arms tightening around me.
“They’re not that damn good,” he growls, and I catch the hint of possessiveness in his tone that sends shivers down my spine. “Don’t get any fuckin’ ideas, freckles.”
I scoff, stepping away—only to be yanked right back into his arms. My nose wrinkles.
“I want to hug you again,” I whisper, smiling faintly, “but you smell, Kade.” I tap his abs, grinning when they twitch under my hand. “Really bad.”
“I do not,” he grumbles defensively.
Aurora immediately starts crying again.
He winces, shoulders tightening as he glances down the hallway, tugging at his hair. “Shit, I need to—”
“You need to shower,” I interrupt firmly, planting my hands on my hips. “Maybe even bathe. With salts and lots of soap.”
He blinks at me.
“When’s the last time you ate? Or drank water?”
He glances out the window, eyes widening slightly. “The sun was coming up.”
“Well, it’s going down now.” I huff, grabbing his shoulders and steering him down the hall. “I’m starting a bath. Go say goodnight to your little girl, but don’t worry about settling her. I’ll take care of it.”
He resists, heels digging into the hardwood like a stubborn mule. “Georgia…”
“No,” I say, firm and low. “I know you want to handle everything on your own. That’s your thing. But you’re not alone. And I don’t just mean because you’ve got a family that loves you, or friends who’d drop everything to be here.”
My voice quiets, throat thick with the weight of what I’m admitting.
“I don’t know what this is yet, or where it’s going, but I’m here.” For now. “I want to be here.” Forever. “If you want me to be.” Please say you do.
“Want that too,” he murmurs, eyes heated. “A lot.”
Then you should have called me.
I swallow back the words, shrugging helplessly, feeling stupid, and vulnerable and too damn needy.
“Well,” I say instead. “I’m here now. I’ll take care of everything.”
I’ll take care of you.
Leaning in, he presses a lingering kiss to my cheek, his beard brushing my skin in a way that’s anything but innocent.
“Wanna do a fuck-ton more than this, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion. “But not only have I not showered in four days… I, uh… haven’t brushed my teeth either.”
I grimace. “That explains the crying baby,” I say, deadpan. “Probably scared her half to death. You smell like a—”
“Rabid hyena?” he finishes, smirking as he shuffles toward Aurora’s room. “Some say it’s my best quality.”
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the smile that splits my face.
The mans an exhausting, heart-wrecking, annoying asshole.
He’s perfect.
Kade is asleep in his bed, the house is clean, and Aurora is finally… peaceful ish .
It took hours.
I walked her for miles in his living room—swaying, humming, bouncing gently on my toes until my calves burned. I gave her a lavender bath, massaged her legs with baby-safe balm, and rubbed frozen teething rings along her gums until her sobs turned into whimpers.
Thank fuck for whichever Archer or friend donated all the goodies, because they came in handy.
We rocked together until she stopped pulling away, and I fed her slowly, letting her take her time, letting her know she didn’t have to cry for comfort.
The sink is empty. The dishes are washed and dried and stacked neatly on the counter because it didn’t feel right to dig through his drawers or cabinets while he slept.
There were a ton of shipping boxes tucked in a corner, so I broke them down and quietly set them on the porch, not wanting Aurora to get into them when she feels better.
The floors have been swept, and mopped. I wiped down the sticky surfaces in the kitchen, scrubbed the counters, and ran a few loads of laundry.
And somewhere between folding onesies and disinfecting pacifiers, I opened all the windows to air out the house. Lit a candle. Put a soft blanket on the couch. Made the place feel like a home again.
Now, it’s almost sunrise.
Kade slept through the night without moving, and I’m… wrecked.
But I can’t bring myself to put her down.
She’s curled against my chest, her soft yellow blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon.
One tiny hand is tucked into the fleece, the other is curled tight around a strand of my hair.
I tried to pry it free more than once, but every time I did, her face crumpled, and that little fist found it again.
So I let her keep it.
Who am I to take comfort away from something so small and sweet?
The low hum of “The Mother” by Brandi Carlile plays softly through the TV, the fire crackling quietly behind us, filling the room with a golden glow. The warmth on my skin makes me drowsy, but I don’t dare move. Not yet.
And because I’m really weak where this man is concerned, I rescheduled my two appointments for tomorrow. My weekends are always free. So for the next few days… I’ll be here—if Kade needs me.
Maybe it’s fast and stupid and reckless. Maybe my heart will crack open and bleed all over this floor when all this ends.
But as I stare down at her, at this beautiful, brave little girl sleeping against my heart, I know I’d do it all again.
She stopped sucking on the bottle a while ago, her lips now puckered in soft little snores. I slip it gently from her mouth and rub slow circles on her back with one hand while my other fingers trail through her damp hair, still soft and sweet-smelling from the bath.
It shouldn’t be this easy.
Not for someone like me.
I’m a social worker. I’ve been trained to create boundaries, to build walls between myself and the families I work with.
I know the dangers of attachment. I’ve lived the worst-case scenarios.
And yet… from the second I walked into that hospital room and saw her tiny face, red and scrunched and screaming for someone who’d never come, it was already too late.
Maybe it’s because I see myself in her—a helpless little girl, alone in the world, born from tragedy and crying out for someone, anyone , to choose her.
That was me.
Only I didn’t have a Kade.
Didn’t have a Bea—or even an Ethel.
I have no doubt the social workers who tried to help me cared. You don’t do this job if you don’t care. But the times were different, the system was thinner, and the community I was born into makes Summit County look like LA.
I fell through every crack. Every gap and fracture. Again and again.
But Aurora didn’t.
She won’t.
Because Ethel won’t let her.
Because Kade won’t let her.
And neither will I.
A lump rises in my throat, thick and unrelenting. I shift her upright and gently burp her, holding my breath when she stirs, then settles again with a sigh that makes my heart ache.
When she’s fully asleep, I stand, slow and careful, my legs screaming in protest from how long I’ve been sitting, and carry her into the nursery.
I lower her into the crib, settling her into the firm mattress, making sure her blanket is tucked loosely around her hips, not near her face.
Her pacifier rests nearby. The teether ring she finally accepted earlier is still clutched in her tiny hand.
I double-check the monitor, adjust the angle, and gently draw the blackout curtains shut. The soft glow of the nightlights spills across the room in warm patterns of dancing bees and rainbows. They flicker gently on the pale yellow walls, and my chest throbs with something I don’t know how to name.
I brush a hand through her dark hair, lingering for just a second too long, and my vision blurs. I blink hard, swallowing down everything I feel but can’t say.
How did I fall this hard? And what the hell am I supposed to do if it ends?
Because this—this baby, this man, this messy, beautiful life?
This feels dangerously close to home—the one thing I’ve wished for my whole life but never found.
Maybe that’s finally changed. Maybe all my wishes have finally come true.