Parker’s cheeks flush slightly. “Boys, why don’t you wait with Uncle Charles while I show Jace, Cal, and Silas what needs to be carried?”
“But the motorcycles—” Noah starts.
“Later,” Parker promises. “If they say it’s okay, you can look later. Right now, we have work to do.”
Charles scoops both boys up with practiced ease, one under each arm, making them shriek with laughter. “Come on, troublemakers. Let’s go see if Lottie and Jimmy want to play.”
He carries them toward the main house, and suddenly we’re alone with Parker on our doorstep.
The silence is deafening.
“So,” she says finally, crossing her arms. “Charles volunteered you. You don’t have to?—”
“We want to help,” I cut her off. “With the move. Whatever you need.”
Her eyes search my face, then move to Cal, then Silas. Looking for something. Finding it, maybe, in the tension we’re all barely containing.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Thank you.”
She turns to head back to her house, and the three of us follow, keeping a careful distance. Professional. Helpful. Not at all like three men desperately trying to reconcile the woman we knew with the mother she’s become.
Not at all like three men who just met children who might be theirs and can’t ask the only question that matters.
Because Parker asked for time. For space. For one day to bury her father before we demanded answers.
And we’re going to give it to her.
Even if it kills us.
Even if every instinct screams to know the truth.
We’ll wait.
But not much longer.
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?
