Chapter 19
PARKER
The kitchen boxes are a blessing in disguise. Something to do with my hands, a task that requires focus and precision and absolutely no emotional processing whatsoever.
I’ve unpacked three boxes of dishes—carefully placing plates in cabinets, arranging glasses by size, creating order out of chaos—when Jace walks past with a disassembled bedframe balanced on one shoulder like it weighs nothing.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just moves through the kitchen with that military efficiency, heading for the stairs.
Yesterday we buried Dominic. Yesterday I stood at a graveside with my sons while these three men carried the casket and saw my children for the first time. Yesterday I promised them we’d talk after the funeral.
Today, they’re helping me move in as if nothing happened.
Cal follows a moment later with two boxes stacked so high I can only see his sandy hair above the cardboard. “Kitchen?” he asks, pausing.
“Boys’ room,” I read from the label. “Upstairs, second door on the left.”
“Got it.” He disappears up the stairs.
Silas comes next, carrying what looks like a dresser by himself, muscles flexing under his black t-shirt in a way that should be illegal. He meets my eyes for half a second—just long enough for me to see the storm brewing there—then keeps walking.
They’re being professional. Helpful. Exactly what I asked for.
So why does it feel like I’m walking through a minefield?
I return to unpacking, methodically working through box after box. Utensils in the drawer. Pots hanging from the rack. Coffee maker on the counter because I’m going to need industrial amounts of caffeine to survive whatever conversation is coming.
The label maker was a brilliant investment. Every box is clearly marked, every item with a designated home. Control through organization. Sanity through systems.
If only I could label and organize my emotions the same way.
Another trip upstairs. This time, carrying a box marked BOYS - CLOTHES in my neat, color-coded system. I can hear them before I see them—the sound of an electric drill, male voices discussing measurements and angles.
I pause in the doorway.
All three of them are in the boys’ room, working on assembling the bunk bed I’d bought in California.
Jace has the instruction manual spread on the floor, studying it with the same intensity he probably uses for tactical operations.
Cal’s on his back under the frame, tightening bolts with practiced efficiency.
Silas holds the ladder section steady, his massive hands making the wood look delicate.
They’re building my sons’ bed.
The thought hits like a fist to the solar plexus. These men—these three men who are my sons’ fathers—are building the place where Liam and Noah will sleep. Where they’ll whisper secrets after lights out. Where they’ll dream.
My throat goes tight.
I’m not crying…it’s allergies. That’s why I’m fighting watery eyes and a burning in my nose.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, my voice coming out thinner than I intend. “I can handle the furniture.”
Cal slides out from under the frame, grinning up at me with that devastating smile that’s always been his most dangerous weapon. “Part of the service, ma’am. Moving and assembly included.”
The joke falls flat. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers are gripping the wrench a little too tightly.
“Very professional,” I manage, setting the box down by the closet.
“We aim to please,” Silas says, not looking at me. His jaw is clenched, that muscle jumping the way it does when he’s holding back words. Holding back everything.
“Besides,” Jace adds, still studying the manual, “this design is clever. Maximizes vertical space. Good choice for—” He stops himself. For what? For twins? For five-year-old boys? For the children he saw yesterday and is trying very hard not to think about? “Good choice,” he finishes lamely.
“Thanks.” I back toward the door. “I’ll just—I’ll be downstairs. If you need anything.”
None of them follow me.
I’m grateful for that.
I’m devastated by that.
I’m both things at once, and it’s exhausting.
Back downstairs, I throw myself into work.
Unpack the linens—sheets sorted by size, towels arranged by color.
Set aside decor boxes for later because aesthetic concerns feel impossibly trivial right now.
Move through the house like a woman possessed, creating order because it’s the only thing I can control.
The boys are still at the main house with Sienna, Lottie, and Jimmy. “Let them play while we work,” Sienna had said this morning. “The move will go faster without little ones underfoot.”
She’d meant it kindly. But all I can think is that my sons are over there, being watched by their uncle’s wife, while their fathers are here, fifty feet away, assembling their bedroom furniture and pretending their entire world didn’t tilt sideways yesterday.
Eventually, I end up in my bedroom with the last major project: my bed frame.
It’s a low-profile Alaskan King—massive and close to the carpet, the kind of minimalist design that’s both practical and aesthetically pleasing. I’d bought it specifically because the boys could climb in easily when they had nightmares or just wanted to cuddle.
Which is every night in a new place.
The frame is still in pieces, hardware bag attached to the headboard, instruction manual tucked inside. I pull out my power drill—a good one, professional grade, because I learned years ago that cheap tools only make jobs harder—and get to work.
The familiar weight of the drill in my hand is comforting. This I can do. This makes sense. Bolt A into slot B, tighten until secure, and move to the next piece.
I’m halfway through attaching the side rail when I sense him.
“Well, well.”
I look up to find Cal leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that amber gaze—Noah’s gaze—fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“What?” I ask, returning to my work because looking at him for too long feels dangerous.
“Nothing. Just admiring the view.” His voice carries that teasing lilt that’s pure Cal, but there’s something brittle underneath it. “Parker Carter with power tools. It’s very... competent.”
“I know how to assemble furniture,” I mutter, lining up the next bolt.
“Clearly.” He pushes off the doorframe, moving into the room with that easy confidence that’s slightly forced today. “Though I have to ask—what does a single woman need with an Alaskan King? That’s a lot of bed for one person.”
He’s trying. Trying to be normal, to joke, to pretend we’re not both thinking about yesterday. About amber eyes in a small face. About timelines that add up too perfectly.
Heat creeps up my neck. “The boys—”
“Ah, yes. The boys.” He crouches beside me, ostensibly to examine the frame, but I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing. “Let me guess. They like to sprawl?”
“They’re acrobats in their sleep,” I say, grateful for the excuse to focus on the drill instead of his face. “All elbows and knees. New places make them nervous, so they end up in my bed most nights. This way, there’s room for all of us without anyone getting kicked.”
“Smart.” He picks up the instruction manual, scanning it with that quick intelligence that always made him dangerous. “So they sleep with you? Most nights?”
“Most nights.” I finish tightening the bolt and move to the next corner. “They’re five. It’s normal.”
“I wasn’t criticizing.” His voice goes softer, and when I glance at him, his expression is unguarded. Vulnerable. “Just trying to understand. Trying to picture it. You and them. What your life has been like.”
Without us, hangs unspoken in the air.
“We managed,” I say quietly.
“I don’t doubt it.” He reaches out, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to touch me. But his hand goes to the frame instead, steadying it while I work. “You’ve always been capable. Stubborn as hell, but capable.”
“Had to be.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel him go very still beside me.
“Parker—”
“Can you hand me that Phillips head bit?” I interrupt, gesturing toward the drill bit set scattered across the floor. “The one with the magnetic tip.”
He does, but his fingers brush mine in the transfer, and the contact sends electricity racing up my arm. Our eyes meet, and I see everything he’s holding back. Every question. Every fear. Every hope.
“The other day,” he says quietly, “When you said the boys were five. Born in October—”
“Cal, please.” My voice cracks. “You promised.”
“The funeral was yesterday.”
“And today is moving day.” I set down the drill and reach for the hem of my sweatshirt—it’s gotten too warm in here, the afternoon sun streaming through the windows making the room feel like a sauna.
I pull it over my head without thinking, leaving me in just my yoga pants and a black crop tank that shows a strip of my stomach.
When I look back at Cal, his mouth has gone dry.
“Parker—”
“Can you hold these two pieces together?” I ask, all business, pointing to the headboard sections that need to be joined. “I need both hands to get the bolt started.”
“I—yeah. Yes.” He moves into position, his hands gripping the wood, and I notice the way his knuckles go white. The way he’s very carefully not looking at me.
I fit the drill bit into place, line up the bolt, and start the motor. The whir of the drill fills the silence, giving me something to focus on besides the way Cal’s jaw is clenched, the way his breathing has gone shallow.
The bolt slides home smoothly. I move to the next connection point.
“Can you shift left about an inch?” I ask.
He does, still determinedly staring at the headboard like it’s the most fascinating piece of furniture he’s ever seen.
The drill quiets as I finish the second bolt, and when I glance up at him, he’s looking everywhere but at me—at the ceiling, at the window, at the instruction manual on the floor.