CHAPTER 47
TYLER
Two days later and a little worse for wear, Tyler pulled up to the gate on Wellington Crescent and pressed the intercom. The Lounts had installed CCTV cameras around the property—a major selling feature, according to Cary’s realtor.
“Hi, babe,” Cary’s voice crackled through the speaker.
“We’re here,” she announced.
The gate buzzed open, and she drove down the winding driveway with the Downton Abbey theme playing in her head. Did she deserve to live here? Probably not. Bragging Woman had been right—she was a lucky lady.
“It’s a big driveway to shovel, isn’t it, buddy?” she said to Rory. After two days in the car, she was talking to her dog more than usual. At least he liked her singing voice. Or so she told herself.
She parked in front of the limestone house—okay, mansion—and climbed out of the Mustang while Rory hopped down from the other side.
She stretched her legs, inhaling deeply as she took in the view: a perfectly manicured lawn, hedges trimmed to precision, and elegant shrubbery she couldn’t name.
Beyond that, coach houses, an outdoor pool, tennis courts, and what looked like a putting green—all backing onto the Assiniboine River.
Rich people things.
“What a dump,” she muttered as Cary strolled across the lawn toward her.
“Rory!” he shouted, and the dog took off like a shot. “How’s my boy?”
“What about me?” she teased. “Is this how it’s going to be?”
He wrapped her in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
God, you smell good.
“How am I supposed to keep this place clean, Cary?” she asked, still overwhelmed. It didn’t feel real—like she’d stepped into someone else’s life.
“We have a cleaning service.”
“We do?” She tilted her head.
He smirked. “We do.”
She unfastened Rory’s harness, and he zoomed around the yard in ecstatic loops.
“He’s really motoring,” Cary said, lobbing a tennis ball across the grass.
“He’s never had a yard before. Now he’s got a football pitch. So much for ‘poor Rory.’”
Cary kissed her cheek. “Come inside.”
“My stuff . . .” She nodded toward the trailer.
“We’ll get it later.”
“Yeah, I need a shower.”
“You look beautiful,” he said, giving her a wink and a lifted brow. “And you know I like you dirty.”
“Cary!” She tried to hold a straight face—but failed.
She called Rory and he came instantly. The dog had the worst case of FOMO she’d ever seen, and that was saying something from someone who worked in the music industry.
“Welcome home.” Cary lifted her off the ground.
“Put. Me. Down!” she squealed, kicking like a toddler as he carried her over the threshold.
“Surprise!” he said.
She gasped. Her entire family stood in the foyer—and Cary’s too—plus Allie, Kim, and Vegas.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, tightening her topknot. “I look like shit.”
“Yeah, join the club,” Dylan said, cradling her pregnant belly.
“I’d like everyone’s attention, please,” Cary announced, handing out champagne flutes like a department store Santa. He offered one to Tyler, but she waved it off and poured herself sparkling grape juice instead. She wasn’t drinking while they were trying again.
“Thank you all for coming,” Cary continued. “We’ve officially moved to Winnipeg!”
Cheers erupted, glasses clinked.
He reached for her hand, eyes locked on hers.
“Babe, my favorite part of every day is learning something new about you. Like how you can’t sleep if there are dirty dishes in the sink.
Or how your toast has to be cut diagonally.
And your favorite movie is that Metallica documentary—which, fine, is entertaining, but maybe not the best movie ever made.
But I want to spend the rest of my life learning everything about you. ”
“Everything?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Cary grinned and pulled out a small velvet box, dropping to one knee. “It’s already a yes from Bert and Rory,” he said, “so what about making it—”
“A hat trick?” she cut in, earning another big laugh.
He rolled his eyes playfully and opened the box to reveal an emerald-cut diamond. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” she cried, and he slipped the ring onto her shaking finger.
It was everything—her teenage crush, her love of music, and the feeling of being truly home. Everything she’d been through felt like it led to this moment: becoming Mrs. Cary Kingston.
Applause broke out again as the room erupted in celebration.
Cary turned toward Bert. “I want to acknowledge Tyler’s mom, Michelle. I hope she would’ve approved, sir.”
“More than approved,” Bert said, and her siblings nodded in agreement. “Raise ’em up,” he added, lifting his glass. “To Michelle.”
The room echoed back: “To Michelle!”
“One more thing,” Cary said, handing Tyler a brand-new Jets jersey.
“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ve always wanted one in blue.”
“Look at the back.”
She turned it around.
It read mrs. kingston
Pamela burst out laughing. “Samesies!”
When Tyler woke up, every muscle in her body protested. Given the move, the new office, and the past three weeks of working on the Oh Claires’ showcase, it was understandable. The guest list was already at capacity, and they still had to invite the press.
A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. Even shifting beneath the covers made her wince. Lately, exhaustion clung to her no matter how much she slept.
But tonight was Cary’s WAG exhibit opening—she couldn’t stay in bed.
She pressed a hand to her forehead. No fever, just the same lingering queasiness. Maybe stress. Or her period.
Frowning, she grabbed her phone and opened her cycle tracker.
Late. Not by much, but enough.
Her stomach fluttered. Just stress. Probably.
But what if it isn’t?
A little while later Cary arrived home from the WAG where he’d been working since dawn. He was adamant about putting the finishing touches on his exhibit. Everything had to be perfect.
“I’m home!” he said, and Rory sprinted toward the door.
“Cary?” Tyler hollered. “I need a plus one for tonight.”
He walked into the kitchen and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s been sold out for weeks.” He grabbed an apple from the bowl on the island counter. “We’re over capacity as it is.”
She rephrased her statement. “I can’t go without a plus one.”
He frowned. “What do you mean you can’t go?”
“It will be physically impossible to go without a plus one.”
“Well, who is it?” he asked, his voice unsure.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I haven’t met him yet.”
He held her hand and looked at her inquisitively. “You’re not making any sense.”
“My plus one’s in here.” She took his hand and placed it below her stomach.
He widened his eyes and straightened his back. “You’re—?”
“We’re having a baby.” She showed him the pregnancy test. “I like this kid already,” she said. “He’s stealing your thunder on opening night.”
“He?”
She nodded, rubbing her midsection. “It kind of feels like a he. And you thought your biggest competition was Rory.”
“Let’s move up the wedding,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “I don’t want a wedding.”
His eyes lowered to his feet. “Have you changed your mind about getting married?”
“No, not at all, but I don’t want a circus wedding. I want to have a party instead.” She smiled. “A surprise wedding.”
“When?”
“I don’t know?” She twisted her dazzling engagement ring, admiring the diamond. “The only window open is July first weekend.”
“Then July first it is,” he confirmed.
She raised her brow. “Canada Day?”
“What’s more Canadian than getting married on July first?”
“It’s two weeks away,” she reminded him. “We won’t be able to pull it off in time.”
“Not with that attitude,” he teased. “Babe, you’ve put tours together in less time, and we’ll hire people.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.” She tapped her lips. “Do you know what I was thinking?”
“Uh-oh . . .”
“Stop.” She stilled her gaze. “I’m being serious.”
“Okay, what?”
“You don’t have to wear a ring. It will inhibit your guitar playing.”
“Who am I? Fucking Tommy?” He shook his head. “I’d like to think I’m a little more skilled than that. Once it’s on, it’s on forever.”
Later that evening at the WAG, Cary strode down the red carpet, camera flashes glinting off his sharp suit. Reporters called his name, their voices blurring into the low hum of the crowd. Near the entrance, Tyler stood watching, a smile on her lips as their eyes locked for a brief, electric moment.
A story had leaked about him buying a house in the area, but true to form, Winnipeggers weren’t making a fuss. A few onlookers nodded politely and left him alone.
“Over here!” Allie whistled. She wore a white pantsuit with black Chuck Taylors—the most dressed up she’d ever been.
“You look great,” Tyler said, hugging her.
“Thanks, man.” Allie lifted the lapels of her jacket. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”
“What? This old thing?” Tyler twirled in her Jason Matlo black gown and candy-apple-red heels. She believed in supporting Canadian designers—just like her fiancé.
A few moments later, Cary joined them and the three walked into the WAG together.
“How are you settling in?” he asked Allie, waving at someone who shamelessly snapped a picture.
“I love it! My place is spacious and everyone’s so nice here.”
“Friendly Manitoba,” Tyler chimed in.
Allie stopped and turned to Cary. “Hey, you said you’re not touring next year, but would you consider one-offs or festivals?”
Cary shrugged. “Yeah, sure. If the timing’s right.”
“Good. Because you’re headlining Coachella.”
“Are you serious?” He hugged her. “Thanks, Allie!”
“Just doing my job, man.”
After saying hello to the WAG board of directors, Tyler and Cary stepped away from the crowd.
“Can you believe I’m already hungry?” she whispered.
“I’ve got you covered.” He flagged down a server carrying a tray of miniature cardboard boxes.
“I don’t feel like noodles,” she said, rubbing her stomach. “Nothing spicy.”
He handed her a box. “Open it.”
She peeked inside. “Truffle popcorn!” She popped a piece into her mouth. “How did you—?”
He shrugged. “I might know a guy.”
An hour later, Cary gathered the Robertsons, his parents, Allie, Kim, and Vegas in the WAG’s lecture room.
The space, usually reserved for artist talks and media previews, now felt intimate, charged with anticipation.
Tyler stood beside him at the front of the room, her fingers wrapped tightly around his.
Her heart thudded against her ribs as she scanned the familiar faces—her dad, stoic as ever, Dylan cradling her baby bump, Joe with his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, looking more nervous than he probably felt.
Her mom should have been here. That thought flickered and faded before she let it settle too deep.
Allie and Kim stood shoulder to shoulder near the front row, while Vegas lingered by the door, ever the watchful presence.
“Thanks for coming,” Cary began, his voice steady but charged with emotion. “This is the best day of my life.”
Dylan’s eyes darted between them, suspicion brewing.
Cary grinned. “We’re having a baby.”
The room erupted in cheers.
“Get the fuck out!” Dylan pointed at her belly. “Our kids are going to be like siblings!”
“Yeah,” Tyler laughed. “It’s great timing.”
“The not drinking part gets easier,” Dylan said, walking toward her. “It’s good to give your liver a break. You know it’s your biggest organ.”
Tyler raised an eyebrow at Cary across the room. “Well . . . it’s not everyone’s biggest organ.”
Dylan snorted. “Really?” She turned to Cary. “Some guys have all the luck, don’t they?”
They burst into laughter.
Bert walked over. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Dad,” they said together.
“Liars.” He shook his head, chuckling, as Cary joined them.
“Thanks, son.” Bert clutched a red paisley handkerchief, dabbing his eyes. “Thanks for bringing my kid home.”
“My pleasure, sir.” Cary shook his hand. “I’ve got a favor to ask—”
“Anything.”
“I’m recording ‘Happy Merry Christmas,’ and I was wondering if you’d play on the track?”
Bert lit up. “I’d be honored.”
Later, Tyler and Cary wandered the exhibit, their footsteps echoing softly across the stone floor. The white walls held snapshots of his life—action shots, portraits, and her favorite: the unguarded moments that captured the man she loved.
“Why do they have red dots?” she asked. “Are you selling them?”
He nodded. “Donating the proceeds to Bert’s charity.” He squeezed her hand. “I still want to take your picture.”
“Not now.” She rubbed her still-flat stomach. “I’m going to balloon. Look at Dylan.”
“Especially now that you’re pregnant.”
“It might be cool for him to see later.” She grabbed another box of truffle popcorn as it passed. Thank god her pregnancy hadn’t ruined truffle oil—yet.
They continued through the exhibit as Cary explained the stories behind each photo—stories too layered for a title card. The past twenty years had been captured by some of the best photographers in the world, and Cary’s own shots held up just as beautifully.
“What’s this?” he asked, stopping at the back corner.
“I don’t know.” She followed his gaze.
It was a framed replica of his Junior hockey card.
His eyes narrowed. “Was this you?”
“Who’s been keeping secrets now?” She squeezed his arm, trying not to laugh.
“Ow,” he joked. “Sorry, babe, but it’s so cute when you explain the rules.”
“I’ll give you cute.”
“Wait.” He blinked. “How long have you known?”
“Quite a while.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was waiting for the right moment.” She gestured to the card. “When this opportunity came up, I couldn’t resist.”
“How did you even—?”
She waved at his mother across the room. “If you don’t ask, you don’t get.”
Thanks, Pamela.