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Hired By My Rich Highland Husband Epilogue 89%
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Epilogue

Two years later…

M ax had never planned for this life. But two years and one impossible woman later, he understood what it meant to belong.

He adjusted his laptop screen, fighting a smile as Mrs MacPherson’s voice drifted up from the forecourt, scolding Old Grant about tracking mud across her clean floors earlier. A while ago, such interruptions would have irritated him. Now they were part of Dunmarach’s daily rhythm.

In two years, Dunmarach had become a living, breathing home, and the distillery was thriving, expanding into new markets while keeping its soul intact.

The study had transformed alongside its occupants. Martin’s trophies no longer dominated the glass cabinet. They shared space with new milestones: the crystal tumbler from their wedding toast, the deed to the community trust, Rowan’s first published history of Dunmarach. A photo of her grandmother at the care home – dressed in her Sunday best for her and Joe’s anniversary. She still recognised her family, though more often than not, she searched their faces like the answer was just out of reach.

Max and Rowan’s wedding photo sat on his desk. A moment captured outside the small Glasgow parish church. No society photographers or elaborate ceremonies. Just them, bathed in rare Scottish sunshine, while Rowan’s grandmother beamed from her wheelchair, Mrs MacPherson swooned, and Oliver pretended not to cry.

Max outlined the frame with his fingertip. Even now, the sight of Rowan in that vintage lace dress, her hair crowned with white heather, made his heart swell. She had refused the traditional pearls his mother would have insisted upon, instead wearing her grandmother’s simple silver pendant.

The study door creaked. Another sound he had grown to love. She slipped in, carrying two steaming mugs and wearing one of his old Cambridge rowing jumpers like a dress.

His favourite look on her.

‘Thought you might need rescuing from those quarterly reports.’ She set his tea beside him and ran her finger around the rim of her mug, eyes tracing the room like she was taking stock of her life.

‘Mum says hi, by the way. She’s still smug about our mother-daughter Paris trip. Apparently, I’m the workaholic now. As if she didn’t march me into every bloody museum.’

He smiled. Paris had done her good. Less stress, more sleep, more laughter. He liked to think he had something to do with that, too.

‘Can you believe I’ve gone full “local historian”?’, she asked. ‘People stop me in the Co-op to tell me about their great-granny’s nineteen-twenty-seven sheep feud. It’s sweet. Ah, I see – you already found a distraction.’

He lifted the wedding photo. ‘Just remembering how beautiful you looked.’

‘Smooth talker.’ But her smile held tenderness as she hopped up on his desk. ‘You weren’t so bad yourself. Even if you did wear a three-piece morning suit to a tiny parish wedding.’

‘Some standards must be maintained.’

She snorted. ‘Says the man who now wears jumpers instead of suits because his wife needs easier access to his pecs.’

‘A shocking lapse in protocol.’ His hand found her knee. ‘I blame your corrupting influence.’

‘Hmm.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Speaking of corruption and influence…’

Something in her tone made him sit straighter. ‘What have you done now?’

‘Why must I have done something?’

‘Because that’s your “I reorganised the library by colour”-voice.’

‘Once! That happened once! And yeah, it doesn’t make sense when most of the books are somewhat brownish.’ But her laugh held a hint of nervousness. ‘I need to tell you something important.’

Max’s thumb traced circles on her knee. ‘I’m listening.’

She set her mug aside, fidgeting absently with her – his – jumper hem. ‘Remember three months ago, when I had the stomach bug and vomited like a fountain?’

‘Vividly.’

‘And remember last month when we talked about writing new chapters and our vision for Dunmarach?’

‘Equally vividly.’ The community trust launch had sparked intense discussions about family, responsibility, and the future.

‘Well.’ She took his hand and guided it to her stomach. ‘Looks like we’re starting a whole new book.’

The universe split open, swallowing everything but her and those words.

‘Rowan…’ Her name came out jittery. ‘Are you saying…?’

‘That your obsessively organised sperm and all the barfing conspired to bypass my birth control? Yes.’ Her attempt at humour wavered. ‘Looks like I’m pregnant.’

The quarterly reports scattered as he stood, gathering her close. Her arms wound around his neck as he buried his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo and underneath it, something new. Something that made his chest hurt with joy.

‘When?’

‘I found out yesterday afternoon. I wasn’t shopping, I’ve been to the GP.’ Her voice muffled against his shoulder. ‘Wanted to be sure before I told you. Though Mrs Mac’s been giving me knowing looks for weeks. Apparently, my sudden aversion to porridge and whisky fumes was a dead giveaway. She caught me gagging at the bowl a while ago and hasn’t stopped smirking since.’

‘I… didn’t think this was in the cards for us. God, yes, I’m happy. But I’m with you, whatever it is you want to do. I mean, should you… You know, if you’re not feeling ready.’

‘The wee one is staying. Aye, I’m scared shiteless,’ she admitted. ‘But so happy. And when is one ever truly ready for a baby? A Mini-Drummond. How cute is that?’ Her hand came to rest on his cheek. ‘You?’

They had not yet discussed children, both carrying too many inherited fears about parenthood. But as Max looked at his brilliant wife, those fears evaporated like mist.

‘Ecstatic.’ His forehead touched hers. ‘Terrified. Grateful.’

‘Good.’ Her smile brightened. ‘Because I’ve already started planning the nursery. That weird room off the suite? Perfect size. Though we’ll need to move your surplus sock collection…’

Max laughed. ‘Anything you want, my love.’

‘Beware.’ Her emerald eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll hold you to that when pregnancy cravings hit.’

‘And I’m happy to comply. Even if you demand haggis ice cream at three in the morning.’

‘Ugh. Don’t even joke about that right now.’ She tucked herself closer, fitting against him like she had always belonged there.

She had, he knew that now.

‘This is happening, Max. You’re having a baby with your favourite trespasser.’

‘I can’t wait to meet them. I hope they have their mother’s fierceness.’ His hand splayed across her stomach again, protective.

She laced her fingers through his. ‘I love you, you know. Even when you’re being annoyingly proper about everything.’ She stretched up to kiss him. ‘Though if you insist on silly names like Bartholomew, Percival, or Gandalf, we’re going to have words.’

Max gathered her closer, memorising this moment. Autumn light painting copper in her hair, love bright in her eyes, their child growing beneath his palm. Two years ago, he thought legacy was the past. Now, he knew – it was the future they built together.

‘I love you.’ It came easier now, natural as breathing. ‘Both of you.’

Rowan’s smile carried the weight of everything they’d fought for and won. ‘Gandalf and I love you too.’

Outside, leaves danced gold against the crisp blue sky. Inside, Max held his heart, his world, and his entire future in his arms. Living proof that legacies weren’t inherited, but chosen and built and loved into being.

– THE END –

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