Chapter 9
My leg bounced, my sneaker squeaking against the floor of the county courthouse with every jittery tap.
“Daisy.”
Ty’s voice was low enough that it vibrated through me. His hand landed on my thigh—firm, warm, and far too distracting—and pressed down just enough to still me.
“Sorry,” I muttered, shoving his hand away before he noticed how fast my pulse was racing.
The courthouse smelled of lemon polish, the walls lined with wood paneling from another era. Sunlight streamed through tall, narrow windows, catching floating specks of dust in the air.
Last night had been tense. I could tell Ty was nervous about today, and I sure as hell was.
Until this moment, I’d somehow managed not to think too hard about the legal side of Violet’s death and becoming Junie’s guardian.
In my head, it was simple: Violet left a Will, my name was on it, and we’d sign a few papers before heading off to whatever new life came next.
Except—what was next?
No job. No apartment in Chicago. Just a car that smelled like fast food and desperation. I hadn’t even packed—just left a sticky note with my address on the bedroom door. After everything Lauren had put me through, she could handle the rest.
And I definitely didn’t have anywhere for Junie as stable as Ty’s beautiful farmhouse.
My mom died when I was Junie’s age, and I hardly remembered the logistics of everything that came after.
We’d scraped by on Dad’s single salary until he’d decided we weren’t his responsibility anymore. Then, it was just me and Violet.
Life had made me scrappy, good at getting by in a pinch. But would the courts see that as a positive? Or would it just look like I was far too unpredictable to be a guardian?
My leg started bouncing again, the squeaking resuming like a countdown clock.
I stared down at my high-tops with little daisies painted on the sides, dirty from years of wear. “Why didn’t I pack anything else?”
“Hmm?” Ty said. He sat next to me in a bespoke suit, looking like he’d just come off a GQ magazine shoot for Man of the Year.
“Nothing,” I mumbled. It wasn’t like I was about to confess that his stupid mustache and steady presence were making me spiral in too many directions.
After I figured out who the mysterious Huddy was, I’d scoured the internet for any trace of him.
There were plenty of press photos in suits back when he was in the NHL, but real life was different.
The fabric framed him just right, accentuating how broad his shoulders were.
He looked clean and composed under the slant of sunlight from those courthouse windows.
And he had definitely combed his mustache.
In comparison, I looked like a before photo from those pitiful makeover shows from the early 2000s.
Jeans with a coffee stain from last week.
A wrinkled Foreigner T-shirt. Hair that had chosen violence after drying without all of my expensive products I’d left behind in Chicago.
Everything about me screamed unemployed and unprepared.
If I’d been the one on the judge’s stand, looking down at us, I knew who I’d pick. After all, this wasn’t just some procedural box to check.
This was real.
I was about to walk through those doors and convince strangers I was fit to raise a child. To parent an eight-year-old.
I wasn’t ready for that.
I wasn’t even ready to think about why all of this was happening.
My hands shook, only in part from the energy drinks I’d pounded this morning. “Holy shit,” I whispered.
Ty turned his head toward me. “What?”
“I’m going to be her guardian,” I said, the words slipping out. “I don’t even have on matching socks.”
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t try to fix it with some big speech. He just said, quiet and steady, “She loves you.”
And shit, how did he know the right thing to say? Just like three years ago when he’d stood on the beach, fingers tangled in my hair, telling me to be brave exactly when I needed to hear it.
But today, I didn’t feel brave.
No, today I was terrified and sad and lonely and a hundred other emotions I didn’t want to inspect. Instead, I let out a shaky breath. “Love isn’t a parenting qualification.”
“It’s a good start. You’ll figure it out.”
His voice was so calm it almost made me angry. Because I didn’t feel like I would figure it out. When there was a kid depending on me, time was a luxury I didn’t have.
“Breathe,” he said, somehow sensing I’d forgotten that was important.
I let out a big exhale, gaze fixed on the double doors ahead. “I’m just preparing for them to hand you full custody and send me packing.”
His head tilted my way. I didn’t have to look to feel his steady, infuriatingly patient gaze. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t. But what if my good luck was that my car didn’t die coming over Vail Pass?
We both know there was a lot of luck involved in that.
So then, is this the part where everything else comes crashing down?
One: my tragic wardrobe. Two: my tragic everything else.
Three: some horrific, unforeseen circumstance I don’t even have the brainpower to conjure right now. Are plagues still a thing?”
“You look fine,” Ty said, looking straight ahead.
I huffed out a laugh. “I look like I’m here for a restraining order instead of a custody hearing.”
His jaw flexed, hands shoved into his pockets. “You’re family. From everything I’ve read, that will go a long way.”
That made me pause. From everything he’d read?
How much time had Ty spent researching family court? Obviously, he’d gone through the steps to be foster certified, and it was clear he loved my niece, but I still didn’t understand the full story between them.
How she looked at him. Why his house already felt like hers.
I opened my mouth to ask, but the doors creaked open and a bailiff stepped into the hall.
“Daisy Winslow and Tyler Hudson. The judge will see you now.”
I stood so fast that the room spun. Sensing my distress, Ty grabbed my elbow, and together we walked through the double doors.
Inside, the courtroom felt too small for the magnitude of the moment. I took a seat at a table meant for attorneys I’d only ever seen on TV, surrounded by papers, files, and words like placement and temporary custody hanging in the air.
Ty sat beside me, calm as a granite statue. I tried to channel that energy, but the closest I could get was a tornado about to touch down.
“Ms. Winslow,” the judge said, looking at me over his reading glasses. “I understand you arrived from Chicago yesterday?”
I nodded, hands clasped in my lap. “Yes.”
The caseworker flipped through a file. “She’s listed as next of kin and guardian nominee in Violet Winslow’s Will.”
There it was—my name attached to something heavy. I should’ve felt anchored by it. Instead, it felt like I was going to pass out, because oh shit, my sister had a Will because she—
“Ms. Winslow,” the judge continued, “we have a few questions regarding custody of your niece, Juniper Winslow. I’ll hand it over to Sandra Diaz, your appointed caseworker.”
I nodded, the motion feeling a little violent I was breathing so hard.
As if sensing my distress, Ty’s hand found mine under the table and slid into mine.
Our fingers laced together, just like they had three years ago when that car had almost hit me.
It shouldn’t have steadied me as much as it did, but something about him always seemed to make my racing mind slow down.
The caseworker tapped her papers on the table, then smiled at me. “Thank you for getting here so fast. It’s important to us that we do whatever we can to keep families together. I’m sure Juniper was glad to see you.”
That sounded nice, but I didn’t dare let the tension out of my shoulders, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Can you tell us about your current housing arrangements?”
Well, that didn’t take long. “I—uh—don’t have… arrangements.”
Her brow lifted, then she jotted something down on the paper in front of her.
I kept going before she could. “Chicago was home until about 48 hours ago, when my roommate ended my lease right before I got the news of”—my mouth went dry, unable to say the words my sister’s death aloud—“the news. I grabbed what I could reach and left.”
“I see,” Sandra said, which sounded a lot like Strike One. “And employment?”
One word made me want to sink through the floor, but instead I plastered on the fakest smile I’d ever worn. “I’m between jobs.”
That was the polite way of saying unemployed with a savings account as healthy as a six-day-old banana.
She nodded, then jotted some more, likely checking off boxes on a Reasons Daisy is a Disaster list.
“What about my sister’s house?” I looked at the judge, pleading with him not to dismiss me so fast. “My Aunt Maggie left it to us, so my name should be on the deed. Does that count as housing?”
He looked at Sandra, who put her pen down.
As bad as her pen scratching across the paper was, this felt worse.
“You’re correct, yes. Our office visited the property this weekend to collect some of Juniper’s belongings for Mr. Hudson.
Unfortunately, the house is under extensive renovation.
In its current state, by Colorado law, it is unsafe for a child.
The kitchen needs to be gutted due to water damage.
There is only one livable bedroom. But the real problem is the exposed wiring in just about every room. ”
I blinked. “Wait. What?”
“Apologies. I assumed you’d already seen it.”
“No, not the inside yet. I stayed with Ty”—I winced at the judge—“Mr. Hudson.”
The judge’s expression stayed neutral, and that didn’t feel great either.
Sandra looked up at the judge, a sad smile on her face. “Given the current state of the home and the lack of other established housing, we’re classifying Ms. Winslow as unsafe for placement today.”
The breath whooshed out of me.
Just like that, I wasn’t enough.
Wasn’t qualified for this.