Chapter 24 - Georgie
Georgie
After getting home from lunch, I’m undecided on whether it was a date or not.
James took me to a fancy place, Quincy’s on Broadway, and he even made a reservation.
I liked hearing Harper, party of three, a little too much.
Although as a celebrity, James probably makes reservations every time he goes out to eat. So, it probably wasn’t a date.
But at least I received great news at Weston’s appointment. Since he’s been steadily gaining weight and meeting milestones, Weston’s pediatrician didn’t want to see him again for another month. Hearing that felt like Weston graduated from NICU preemie to healthy newborn, which was a welcome relief.
While I feed Weston and get him down for his afternoon nap, James heads out back to work on one of his cars. As I’m nursing Weston, I see the mailman drop off the mail. After Weston falls asleep, I walk outside to check the mail. Flipping through the envelopes, I spot two things of interest.
The first is something addressed to James from the hospital where Weston was born. I frown, wondering if I should open it. Undoubtedly, it’s regarding either my hospital stay or Weston’s. Why is it addressed to James?
So, I commit mail fraud. Or at least, I think it’s mail fraud when you open someone else’s mail. I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I watched Suits, so whatever.
Sure enough, it’s an itemized bill from both Weston and my stays in the hospital, and when I see the final number, I want to faint. The total is more than I make in a year working full time as a waitress.
I can never get out from under a pile of debt this large.
But then I notice the stamp at the bottom: paid in full. My brows knit as I reread the letter, confusion twisting through me. And then it hits me. This isn’t a bill. It’s a receipt.
James must have paid our hospital bills. On one hand, I feel incredibly grateful, but I hate not being able to carry my weight. After my rocky childhood, I’ve worked hard to be independent, so to have to depend on James again feels like another huge step backward.
Stuffing those feelings down to deal with later, I flip to the second piece of mail. This one is addressed to me, and it looks official. How does anyone know I’m staying at James’ house?
My heart drops. Could it be from Nolan, or more specifically, from his family’s attorneys?
With shaking hands, I hold my breath and rip open the envelope. My brows furrow as my eyes dance across the paperwork, and I exhale. It’s not anything from Nolan.
It’s Weston’s official birth certificate.
But then it hits me. I never sent in the birth registration form. Yet… here is Weston’s birth certificate. How did it get processed?
My eyes bug out as they zero in on one specific line of type.
Birth father… James W. Harper.
Storming around back, I jog to the workshop at the rear of the property, yelling for James. I’ve never been back here before because I see it as his private space. Weston and I have already invaded every inch of his house, and leaving the workshop to James felt like the right thing to do.
But today I don’t care about his privacy. Not when he violated mine.
As I walk in through the open garage door, my gaze sweeps around the workshop, taking everything in as I search for James.
A long workbench lines the far wall, with every tool known to man neatly arranged on pegboards.
Several freestanding rolling toolboxes are scattered throughout the space.
There’s a room at the far end, which I bet is where he keeps his drum kit.
When I inhale, the familiar, intoxicating scent that I associate with James wraps around me. Gasoline and leather, layered with one hundred percent pure man.
He may be one of Nashville’s millionaire musicians, but he’s no pretty boy. James is a man who enjoys getting his hands dirty.
That thought sends a zing of attraction straight through my core.
While I don’t immediately spot James, I see a familiar vehicle.
Big Bertha. What is my truck doing here?
Why doesn’t she look wrecked anymore? The front of the car—headlights, grill, hood, and side panels—looks brand-new, and the hood is propped up, like James has been working on her.
But… I have more important things to deal with right now. I won’t get side-tracked.
Two long, jean-covered legs are sticking out from under a sleek old car, and I march over to them.
“James!” I holler, kicking his foot. “You have some serious explaining to do.”
He’s lying on some sort of rolling contraption, so he slides out from under the car with ease. He sits up and grabs his baseball cap from the ground, slipping it on over his unruly blond hair.
But he puts it on backwards. Why, God, why? By now, hasn’t he realized that when he wears a backwards baseball hat, I lose track of everything except how hot he looks?
Ugh! That’s probably exactly why he does it. The crooked bastard isn’t fighting fair.
Focus, Georgie, focus!
Clutching the papers in my hand, I shake them in his face. “You paid our hospital bills! You filled out the birth registration form! And you did all of it without consulting me!”
Why am I surprised? I should know to expect the unexpected from this man.
But still… signing that and filing for a birth certificate?
“You were asleep.”
Stunned doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I feel when I hear his reasoning. My brows raise as I repeat, “I. Was. Asleep.”
That’s his excuse for doing it without telling me?
“You needed your rest, and I didn’t want to wake you.
You had mastitis and were fucking exhausted,” James explains, standing.
He wipes the grease from his hands on an orange cloth and then tosses it onto one of the toolboxes.
“So, I finished filling it out for you and mailed it in. As for the hospital bills,” he shrugs, “it’s just money. ”
It’s just money. Three words only the rich can utter so carelessly.
I look at him in disbelief. He’s so calm. Too calm. “But James… you know what that means, right? You’re listed as the father on Weston’s birth certificate. In the eyes of the state of Alabama, you’re Weston’s father. You’re on the hook for child support now. That’s… that’s absolutely—”
“Insane?”
Even when I’m upset, he can catch me off-guard and make me smile. “Yes, insane. It’s insane, James!”
“Any more insane than pretending to be married?” He asks, the corners of his lips turning up.
He may have a point there, but…
His smile falls, and he leans against the side of the muscle car he’s working on, his thigh brushing mine. “Look, it needed to be done for a lot of reasons.”
“Such as,” I prod, my hands perched on my hips.
“This way, as you said, the courts will view me as the legal father, not Douchebag Deluxe.”
“It’s Dickhead Deluxe, but… Douchebag works too, I guess,” I mutter with a huff. “But—”
I open my mouth to argue further, but James cuts me off.
“Who else am I going to provide for, Georgie? I don’t have a family of my own.
I may as well put the zeros in my bank account to good use and give Weston a head start in life.
” He pauses, grabbing my upper arms in a gentle hold.
“A head start that you and I never had.”
God, this man really does not fight fair. James knows full well that if I thought he had done it for me, I’d put up a fight. But by claiming he did it to better Weston’s life… shit, how can I argue with that? I can’t.
When I don’t respond, James asks with a mischievous grin, “What’d you think of the middle name I picked out?”
My eyes narrow. “Middle name?”
OMG, I didn’t even look at Weston’s name since I had tunnel vision and could only focus on the father’s name.
I look at the paper in my hand and gasp. “You! You didn’t?” Incredulity paints my face as I press my lips together to keep from laughing. “You named him Weston James Harper!”
“You said it had a nice ring to it,” he shrugs.
Popping him on the shoulder, I argue, “I did not! You said that while we were in the hospital!”
“You had a head injury, and you’re misremembering. Concussions can do that, you know,” he smirks. “Besides, Weston James is a good, strong name.”
Weston James.
Like a Cheshire cat, his smile deepens. “Weston James Harper. Sounds good, right?”
I don’t hate it. But I’ll never give James the satisfaction of admitting that.
Dropping his smile, James says, “I am sorry about giving him my last name without speaking to you, but I thought… it would be weird to give him yours if we’re supposed to be married.”
I look at James and see the seriousness etched on his features. I bite my lower lip, rolling it between my teeth. “You’ll be there for Weston? I don’t mean money. I mean… you’ll love him and show up for him?”
I never had a father figure growing up, and regardless of the multitude of pep talks I gave myself while I was pregnant about doing it on my own, the prospect of giving Weston a proper father figure is amazing.
“Georgie, darlin’, I already love him, and yes, I’ll show up day after day, year after year. If there’s one thing my old man taught me, it’s the importance of showing up and sticking around.”
Sitting in James’ car outside of Deb’s Diner, I second-guess my impulsive decision to pull into the parking lot.
After the shock of finding out James legally claimed my son as his own, I’ve spent the last hour and a half dropping off job applications and grabbing a few new ones at other restaurants nearby.
But I didn’t have the same reaction to any of those places as I did when I walked into Deb’s for the first time.
For some unknown reason, I really want to work here.
I felt like I fit in at Deb’s, and I liked Sheila.
Hesitating for another moment, I hop out of James’ SUV, gathering my courage.
I’m going to set aside my pride and beg Sheila to take a chance on me.
I deserve a chance, and I’ll do just about anything to earn one.