Toby made himself smile. It was taking a lot of effort these days. “Mais, you don’t have to help me move.”
“But I love packing,” she said, looking genuinely stung. “It’s cleansing, dahling. Regenerative. Now, this has your name on it, so I don’t think it can go to the charity store, but maybe we could take the little plaque off…?”
Toby looked around at all the boxes he’d lugged wholesale from his parents’ miserable house into his oversized beach mansion. He and Maisy had been clearing for hours, and there were still at least a dozen more to open and sort through. “Why the hell didn’t I do this when I first moved in?”
“You weren’t ready. But you are now, aren’t you, dahling?”
Yes, he was. He was devastated, could barely sleep, and felt lonely as fuck, but he was ready to address the bullshit that had been weighing him down for the better part of… forever.
He’d thought money would help him deal with his baggage, but it had only made it easier to ignore. A million rooms to hide his childhood. A million ways to try to get Tabby DaSilva to see him as a man. The truth, reflected in her face as she screamed at him for abandoning her, was that a real man would have been honest. Would have taken a chance on his feelings without a fortune, a house or a luxury car backing him up.
He’d let her down. He’d let himself down. He’d trapped himself in a haunted funhouse that was no fucking fun whatsoever.
He’d thought he needed status and real estate and more sexual experience when all three things had isolated him from a life he’d enjoyed—working with a small team of people he liked, jamming on the guitar with Scott on drums, playing board games with Tabby and whoever else was free at Silver Daughters. He’d swung for the fences when he’d really needed to sit in the stands with his friends and eat hot dogs.
If he’d only stayed that day in Tabby’s bedroom. Told her how he felt or even asked her out for dinner…
But there was no point thinking that way. It had been almost a fortnight since she had stormed out of his house, and aside from one text, Tabby hadn’t responded to his calls or messages. But he still had hope. That one message had given him more than enough to hold onto. It had come the morning after their fight.
I have no fucking clue what to do about anything, but I’m glad you’ll always have my fingerprints on you, Toby Tennant.
Nose burning with tears, he’d tried to call, but Tabby hadn’t picked up.
I had your fingerprints on me way before you gave me a tattoo,he’d written back.You’re the first—my first love, my first sex, my first tattoo. It all starts and ends with you. Please call me, and I’ll make everything right, I promise.
She hadn’t, but that, unfortunately, made sense. The timing of everything with her mother and Nix’s miscarriage was terrible. He prayed she was bunkered down somewhere with her sisters, trying to process what had happened and that she would, in time, reach out again. But he couldn’t let go of the fear that she’d taken the money he’d given her for his tattoo and run. That she was in some other country, alone and wrestling with herself over what had gone down. But he tried not to think like that for too long, or it would drive him insane.
Tabby had said she was just like her mother, but he knew her better than that. She loved more fiercely than anyone he’d ever known, and she might run away when she got scared, but she always came home for the people she loved. His gut told him she would return, and he prayed it was right.
To kill time, he’d chosen to focus on practical things. Namely, turning his world from one of cold opulence into a place where he and Tabby could have a life together. He’d started by taking a sabbatical from work and selling the beachside mansion. He’d already found a buyer, some investor Maisy knew. The guy had purchased the house, furniture and all, with the proviso that Toby be out by March. He’d agreed to be out by the weekend, even if he had to go to a hotel. He couldn’t stand living in a mausoleum of his own pretentiousness anymore. It was too big and too impractical, and he constantly worried about Mopsy hurting herself going downstairs.
“You’ve made a tidy little profit, dahling,” Maisy had said when all the legal stuff was signed and sorted. “What next?”
“Next, I find a house I actually want to live in.”
That had been easy, too. Now that he knew what he wanted, he searched real estate websites and quickly found a three-bedroom, one-story place in Abbotsford that was just his style. It had a bathtub, a garden framed with roses, and a lemon tree in bloom.
“Très rustic,” Maisy declared when he showed her the photos. “Shall we inspect?”
A whirlwind visit, another private sale, and it was his. Now, he and Maisy were picking through the remains of his old life as Mopsy snoozed in her dog bed nearby. Toby checked his watch and saw it was almost noon. “We should break for pizza or something soon.”
“Wine,” Maisy corrected. “Wine and cheese, and then we can take our first trip to the charity store.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Toby stretched his arms over his head. “You want champagne or?—”
His doorbellbrrringeddownstairs, and Toby jumped a mile, as he had ever since Noah had shown up in the middle of the night.
“Did you already order pizza, dahling?” Maisy said, still picking at the plaque on his fourth-place trophy.
“No.” Moving to the wall panel, he checked the front camera, something he’d also made a habit of doing since Noah barged in. His stomach dropped. Noah was back, and he wasn’t alone. His old boss, Scott Sanderson, was standing beside him. “Fuck.”
“Who is it?” Maisy demanded.
“Noah. Tabby’s brother-in-law. The guy who showed up here a few weeks ago,” he said, his heart pounding. “And Scott, my old boss, is with him. Jesus, why are they here? What the fuck’s happened?”
Maisy tilted her head to the side. “Shall I fetch a weapon, dahling? I could use a broom if push comes to shove?”
Smiling weakly, Toby headed for the stairs. “It’ll be fine. I’ll go see what they want.”
