CHAPTER 13
TYLER
Tyler tossed and turned all night, second-guessing her decision to have breakfast with him.
Deep down, she knew Cary Kingston wasn’t exactly husband material—hell, he barely qualified as boyfriend material.
And she wasn’t looking for a fling. She wanted a baby, a family, something real.
Getting involved with him was like taking a scenic detour straight to heartbreak—beautiful, distracting, and ultimately a dead end with flashing caution lights.
There was also the problem of Sebastien: he was paranoid of anyone getting close to his rock star because, without Cary, he was nothing but a regular piece of shit in a Quebec Nordiques cap.
“What’s Mommy going to do?” Rory glanced at her from the foot of the bed, but he didn’t have a clue.
She picked up her phone to call Dylan. Her sister was honest to a fault, whether she liked it or not.
“What’s up?” Dylan answered in a cheery voice.
“I’m in a bit of a pickle,” Tyler said.
“Oh?” Her sister sounded confused.
“I’m not literally in a pickle, Dylan.” Impatience came out in her tone. “It’s Cary.”
“What happened?”
“We kissed last night.”
“I knew it!”
Like usual, you were right.
“He wants to keep seeing me—” Tyler yanked the phone from her ear as her sister shrieked on the other end. “Calm down,” she hissed. “I’m supposed to have breakfast with him this morning.”
“Yeah, that sounds awful.” A dog barked in the background and Dylan shouted, “Shut the hell up, Samson!”
“Aw, poor Samson.”
“Yeah? Want to trade dogs? Yours doesn’t bark, and mine won’t stop—hold on. Goddammit, Samson! Fucking shut up already!”
She smiled at Rory, now lying on her chest, his loving eyes looking up at her. “Not in a million.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. It was Grandma Mary’s favorite saying, but it didn’t seem like a lot of money in today’s economy.
Tyler closed her eyes and rubbed her left temple. “He’s been on the Most Eligible Bachelors list for twenty years. I must be a fucking masochist.”
“You’re being an idiot,” Dylan scolded her like Samson. “What if he hasn’t met the right person yet?”
“Look at all the women he’s dated.” She shuddered at the thought: a literal catwalk of models and actresses. There wasn’t one regular woman in the lot.
“Some people never find their person, Tyler.”
“I suppose. Okay, what am I going to do about Sebastien?”
“Fuck that guy.” Dylan didn’t mince words. “You’re always saying you want to quit, so pull the plug already.”
“I wish I could afford it.” Not that she was getting paid a king’s ransom at SDM, but her base salary covered her rent. “Oh, and Cary did something weird last night.”
“How weird?”
“He insisted on wearing the shirt he wore at soundcheck.”
“You’re making excuses.”
Dylan was right.
She stopped petting Rory for a second and he pawed at her hand. “I’m going to cancel.”
“Don’t be such a baby. Have breakfast with him. I’m dying to know what his house looks like.”
“Should I Stay or Should I Go” by the Clash played in her head.
Tyler hung up the phone and changed into her usual weekend attire: a Skull Skates hoodie and black leggings. It was the same thing she’d worn on their coffee date, and she hadn’t washed her hoodie since, kind of accidentally on purpose.
She pressed the sleeve to her nose and inhaled like it was contraband. That kiss? Yeah, it had rewired her brain. His tongue had taken a damn tour and left no corner unexplored. Regret might be on the horizon—but so was his bed. Only one way to know which came first.
An hour later, she clipped Rory’s leash to his harness and headed toward Yaletown.
The skies were clear—a November miracle—so she stopped at the bakery to grab the croissants she reserved for special occasions.
Her father had always insisted she never arrive empty-handed.
Manners were practically a religion in her family.
A friendly concierge with a thick Eastern European accent opened the door to his building. Am I making a terrible mistake? Would it be like dating Dave all over again? No. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t show up with a duffel bag and move in.
She knocked on his door at exactly nine-thirty.
“Welcome.” Cary kissed her on the cheek and she handed him the bakery bag. “Thanks,” he said. “You didn’t need to bring anything.” He glanced at the floor. “Except Rory. Hi, Rory! How’s my boy?”
Your boy?
The dog sat and wagged his tail, not understanding the implication.
Tyler stepped out of her boots and surveyed the penthouse, left to right, up and down.
The multi-million-dollar property featured clean, straight lines, wall-to-wall windows, wide-plank floors, and an over-height ceiling.
But the best part about his house was the lingering scent—like a Calvin Klein’s Obsession ad brought to life.
“This is incredible,” she said, figuring it would be nice, but not this nice.
“Sorry.” He picked up a sock from the couch. “It’s a bit of a mess. I’m in the middle of doing laundry.”
Why are people always “ in the middle” of doing laundry and not at the beginning or the end? Still, it impressed her that he was doing it himself. Dave always used a fluff-and-fold service to launder his clothes, but he had no money to buy groceries or pay rent.
“I’ll take you on a tour,” Cary said as Tyler took mental notes for Dylan. He started, “To the left are the guest rooms. I’m not sure why I need them.” She poked her head inside. He was right. The bedding was undisturbed. “In here is my office.”
“Where are your awards?” she asked. “In LA?”
He’d won every award in the music industry a hundred times over, and she was sure they’d have taken up an entire room, even a gallery.
“I hate awards.” He shuddered. “Award shows. All of it. Sebastien’s got them, I guess?” He continued the tour while she paid close attention. “In here is my room.”
Her gaze drew to his bed, and the saxophone part from “Careless Whisper” penetrated her head. Emma Turner had slept in this bed. Okay, they’d had sex. She rubbed her palms on her leggings, having no reason to be jealous other than Emma was a perfect ten.
“And this”—Cary gestured like Vanna White—“is the kitchen.”
A boatload of containers from Urban Fare sat on the island counter.
I knew it.
“Before you say anything,” he said, unstacking the containers, “you’re taking the rest of this home—or I’m giving it to Ivan, the concierge on duty.” He paused, clearly impressed with himself. “He’s Russian.”
She glanced at her watch. “What time are you leaving?”
“Kim got a seat on our flight, so she’s picking me up at five.” He gripped his hands and wrung them. “Sorry for stealing her.”
“Are you kidding? Our booking agent friend Allie has been trying to find her something for weeks. You’d like her, Allie. She’s one of us—no bullshit.” Tyler pulled on the strings of her hoodie. “What did Sebastien say when you told him?”
“Nothing.” Cary passed her a red cup with a black lid that read artigiano. “A latte. With soy milk.”
“Thanks, it’s just what I needed.” She took a sip.
“I love that Cars song,” he said.
“Me too,” she agreed.
Tyler studied the photographs hanging on the wall, but the subjects in the pictures weren’t models or actresses. They were “civilians,” as Kim called them.
“These are so good,” she said. “Did you take them?”
“I took them ages ago.” He cleared his throat. “I’d still like to take your picture.”
“I’m not a model.”
“You could be.”
She ignored the compliment. “I work really hard, you know.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you,” Cary said. “I’ve got an exhibit coming up in LA. You should come.”
“When is it?”
“The end of January.”
“Really?” she asked, her voice unsure. “It’s not on your itinerary.”
Shit. She sounded like a stalker again—but this time, he didn’t flinch.
“I confirmed it yesterday.”
She didn’t get the memo.
“I’ll be there anyway—In LA.” She took a sip of her latte. “I have a band playing at the Troubadour.”
“A band on our roster?”
“No, they’re that indie band I told you about, Yestown.” She grabbed her bag and dug out her phone. “That reminds me . . . I have to check in on the Westgrays. They need babysitting twenty-four seven.”
“Babysitting?”
“That’s my job. I’m a professional babysitter. It’s their first day in the studio.”
“The first day is always the worst.”
“Get this.” She rolled her eyes to the back of her head. “They’re making a double album.”
“Why on earth would they do that?”
“Sebastien said ‘more pucks on the net.’” She shrugged. “It’s ridiculous.”
“It sounds like it.”
Tyler walked back into the living room. “I don’t see any pictures of your family.” She swiveled her head to make sure she hadn’t missed them. “Not even your parents.”
“I should fix that. Come, have something to eat.” He opened the containers. “I wasn’t sure what kind of jam you liked so I got one of everything.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” she said politely.
“You don’t eat bread?”
She sat on a high stool at the counter. “I do, but I can’t eat things that aren’t cut properly.
” She pointed to the stack of toast and wagged her finger.
“It needs to be cut diagonally.” What kind of psychopath cuts it vertically?
She continued, “Croissants are safe because you have to cut them horizontally.”
He laughed. “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. So, I was thinking . . . maybe you could visit me?”
“Way ahead of you.” She flashed a wicked grin.
He tilted his head, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I’m already here.”
His eyes closed for a second. “You know what I mean, Tyler.”
She giggled, tearing her croissant into chunks. Rory performed a tap dance at her feet, earning each flaky piece.
“Australia or England?” he asked. “What’s your preference?”
“As a country? Australia. I think the monarchy’s ridiculous.” The idea of being born into power grated against everything she believed in.
“Where do you want to visit me?” His tone shifted—impatient now.
“I haven’t been to either,” she admitted, softening. “But I can’t go.”
“Because of Sebastien?”
“Yeah.”
I can’t afford it, either.
“Okay, what about Christmas?” he asked. “Got any holiday plans?”
“I’ll be home.”
His eyes widened. “You’re staying here?”
“Home as in Winnipeg,” she said. “I go every year.”
“Every year?” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I’ve been home for the holidays in, like, twenty years.”
She blinked. That might’ve been the craziest thing she’d ever heard.
“It’s cold there,” he added, giving an exaggerated shiver.
She shrugged. “I’ll be indoors.”
“That’s a lot of family time.”
“It’s never enough.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I miss them so much.”
Damn it. She hadn’t meant to cry, but the ache was too deep to hide. Her family meant everything, and he just didn’t get it.
He gently squeezed her shoulder. “Sorry. I’m really screwing up here.”
“It’s okay.” She wiped at her eyes. “Do your parents go away at Christmas?”
“My folks? No. They’ll be in Brandon. They might visit my aunt. I don’t know exactly.”
“She lives in Winnipeg, right?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Charleswood.”
She blinked. “What about your birthday?”
Me and my big mouth.
Cary smiled. “Well, it sucks when your birthday is the day after Christmas.” He gave Rory a piece of toast. “I don’t even bother with it.”
Thank god. When did it turn into a birthday week, anyway? Or a birthday month for some people, like fucking Tommy Napolitano.
“It would mean a lot to your parents if you came home.” She held his gaze. “They won’t be here forever, you know.”
“They are looking older,” Cary admitted. “I noticed it in Winnipeg.” He clasped his hands on the counter. “I’ll consider it.”
After they finished eating, Tyler cleared their plates. She hated messes—especially dirty dishes. But if there was one thing worse, it was dirty bathrooms. Specifically, the skid marks Dave used to leave in her toilet.
“You don’t have to do that,” Cary said, holding her arm mid-clear. “I’ll do it later.”
She twisted her mouth, debating whether to share her pet peeve. “It’s kind of my thing. I like cleaning.”
His brows lifted. “Really?”
She shrugged. “Yeah.”
“At least let me help.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” he said with a grin, grabbing a dish towel.
With the two of them working together, the mess disappeared in no time. The silence between them was comfortable, punctuated only by the clink of dishes and the occasional brush of their hands.
She zipped up her hoodie and grabbed her bag, not wanting to wear out her welcome.
“I should let you get back to your laundry,” she said. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“No worries.” He lowered his chin and pointed to the containers. “Please take this food home. I insist.”
She stepped into her boots. “I’m stuffed. Really.” Her voice raised into a holler. “Come on, Rory!”
The dog’s collar jingled like Santa’s sleigh when he ran toward her.
“When will I see you again?” he asked.
“That depends on you, Cary.”
He kissed her softly, and she caught a hint of marmalade on his lips. “Okay,” he said after a beat. “I’ll see you in Winnipeg.”
“I thought you were considering it?” She narrowed her gaze, not believing a word he said. Dave used to make all kinds of promises only to break them.
“I’ve considered it.”
She turned up the corners of her mouth. “Have a safe flight, Cary.”