Chapter Forty-One
Anson
T he house feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s because my head is still spinning, or maybe it’s because I just walked away from the one person I’d never wanted to walk away from.
I toss my keys onto the counter and run a hand through my hair as I exhale sharply. I should have stayed. I should have fought. But instead, I let the weight of the moment—seeing that fucking ring on her finger—send me running.
I open the cabinet next to the fireplace and grab the bottle of Macallan when a sharp knock at the door breaks through the storm in my mind.
I don’t have to guess who it is.
I pull the door open, and Parker steps inside. He doesn’t say anything right away, just takes one look at me, then at the bottle of whiskey in my hand, and shakes his head.
“Figured you’d need to talk,” he says.
I shut the door behind him, then walk to the kitchen and dig in a box for two glasses. I pour us each a drink and lean against the counter, arms crossed over my chest.
“I saw Tabby.”
He gives me a pointed look. “Yeah, no shit. We all saw her.”
I exhale through my nose. “Her parents were there. And some douchebag named Quenton.”
“And?”
“And she was wearing his damn ring on her finger.” The words taste bitter. “He’s her fiancé.”
Parker’s brows pull together. “What?”
“Apparently, they were engaged before she ran off in a RV with the hippie.”
“Were engaged. Not are engaged?”
I shake my head. “She said something about not paying attention and him just slipping the ring on her hand.”
“And you don’t believe her?”
I turn my glass up and down the harsh liquid.
“I don’t know. I suppose I do. She was a complete mess. I’d never seen her like that before. She’s always so … poised and happy. She followed me out of the place and begged me to listen to her. Then, her dad and Quenton came out, looking for her, and she looked like a cornered cat.”
His expression darkens. “That’s some manipulative bullshit.”
“Yeah.” My jaw flexes. “And I just left.”
Parker lets out a slow breath, like he’s trying to stay patient. “Why?”
I hesitate. Then, because I trust him, because I need to say it out loud, I confess, “Because I asked my mom to design an engagement ring for Tabby today, and seeing some other man’s ring on her finger made me snap.”
Parker blinks, caught off guard. “You—wait. You were gonna propose?”
“Not yet.” I rub the back of my neck. “But soon. And I was gonna ask her to move in with me. To build something here with me.”
Silence settles between us for a beat.
Then, he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
I shoot him a glare. “Thanks.”
“No, seriously.” He gestures toward me. “You stood there last year, telling me I needed to get my head out of my ass and fight for Audrey.” He steps closer, pointing a finger at my chest. “And yet you bailed on Tabby the second things got hard. You let some asshole—who she clearly wants nothing to do with—rattle you enough to walk away from the woman you love. Love enough to have a ring made.”
The words hit hard, but I don’t have time to react before the front door swings open again.
Sebastian and Lennon step inside like they were listening at the door.
“Good,” Sebastian says, “you already chewed him out.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fantastic. An intervention.”
Lennon leans against the counter. “You deserve it.”
I don’t argue.
Sebastian crosses his arms. “After you left, Tabby and her parents got into it.”
I lift my head. “What?”
“They were arguing,” Lennon clarifies. “She looked upset.”
Something in my chest clenches. “How upset?”
Sebastian levels me with a look. “Upset enough that we’re here, telling you to get your ass in the truck and go to her.”
I stare at them for a moment, my pulse hammering.
Then, I move.
I grab my keys off the counter and push past them toward the door.
Parker smirks. “Attaboy.”
As I close the door, I hear him tell the boys about my plans.
“You two are fucked,” Sebastian says through his laughter.
“Us? Why?” Lennon asks.
“Because if Anson, of all people, proposes before either of you and Amiya and Audrey see a ring on Tabby’s finger, the shit is going to hit the fan.”
I don’t hear their response as I race to my truck.
The drive to the campground is a blur, my knuckles white around the steering wheel, my heartbeat matching the rhythm of the tires against the pavement.
When I pull in, I don’t even fully stop before I’m out of the truck, striding toward her RV.