Epilogue
The box of mugs is heavy in my hands as I push backwards through the door of the Sugar Plum Cafe, the familiar chime announcing Brenna's and my arrival.
The rich scent of coffee and fresh apple turnovers fills the air, mixing with the sound of easy conversation and clinking dishes.
This place has become as much a part of our Saturday morning routine as the Farmers Market on Wednesday afternoons and evening fires at home.
“Brenna!” Mia’s face lights up from behind the counter where she’s arranging pastries. “Perfect timing. I was just telling Mrs. Henderson about those beautiful mugs you made for the book club.”
I set the box carefully on the counter, each piece wrapped in tissue paper. Twenty mugs, each one thrown by Brenna’s skilled hands and finished with the Sugar Plum Cafe logo kiln fired into the clay. The hobby she learned for fun has grown into a thriving artisan business neither of us expected.
Brenna appears at my elbow, her hand finding the small of my back as she peers into the box.
Even at twenty weeks pregnant, she moves with the same grace that caught my attention that first stormy night.
Though, now, there’s an easy confidence in her movements, a certainty that comes from being exactly where she belongs.
“I can’t believe you finished them so quickly,” Mia says, carefully lifting one mug to examine it. “Especially knowing how many orders you must have backed up. The magazine feature really put you two on the map.”
“Having my pottery wheel up in Graham’s workshop now has its benefits,” Brenna says, shooting me a look that makes heat coil low in my belly.
Christ. Two years of marriage and my gorgeous young wife still makes me crave her with a single glance.
“Brenna!”
I turn to see Aspen waving from a corner table, her dark hair catching the afternoon light.
She’s become one of Brenna’s closest friends—another city girl who found her place in these mountains with a man twice her age.
The jewelry she makes complements our pieces perfectly, and seeing the delicate silver earrings Brenna’s wearing tells me their friendship runs deeper than business.
“Go,” I murmur against Brenna’s ear. “I’ll handle the delivery.”
She squeezes my hand before crossing to Aspen’s table.
I watch her settle into the chair across from her friend with effortless grace.
The sight still amazes me sometimes. This woman, who stumbled through my meadow in designer boots nearly three years ago, now navigates Wildwood as if she was born here.
“How’s our girl?”
I turn to find Eric sliding onto the stool beside me, coffee cup in hand.
“Doing better, now that the worst of the morning sickness seems to have passed,” I say, my gaze drifting back to where Brenna’s laughing at something Aspen said, one hand unconsciously resting on the gentle curve of her belly.
“How’s that crib coming along?” Eric ribs, amusement in his tone.
“It’s the first one I’ve ever made,” I say defensively, running a hand through my hair. “Want to make sure every joint is perfect.”
“It’s a crib, not a cathedral.”
“It’s for my daughter.”
The words still feel surreal sometimes. My daughter. After years of thinking I’d never have a family, never deserve one, Brenna walked into my life and changed everything. The baby wasn’t planned, but the moment she told me, something settled deep in my chest I didn’t even know was restless.
“Fair point,” Eric chuckles. “Though knowing you, that baby will have the most structurally sound and beautiful heirloom piece in Vermont.”
“As if you won’t spoil her silly.”
“Got that right, but this is my chance.”
To experience fatherhood, he means. To make up for the past. I get it and don’t blame him one bit. I couldn’t imagine not spending every day by Brenna’s side through her pregnancy, and I’m looking forward to our life together with our little family.
Across the cafe, I catch fragments of Brenna and Aspen’s conversation.
Something about Aspen's husband, Landry’s work at the auto shop, Brenna's mother’s latest package of designer maternity clothes—the woman’s convinced Vermont doesn’t have proper shopping— and plans for a girls’ weekend in Burlington.
Normal things. The kind of casual friendship conversations that prove Brenna isn’t just surviving here, she’s thriving.
“Hard to believe it’s been almost three years,” Eric says, following my gaze.
“Sometimes, it feels like yesterday.”
He takes a sip of coffee, studying my face. “You know, when I gave you my blessing that night, I wasn’t sure what would happen. Figured there was a fifty-fifty chance she’d break your heart and head back to the city.”
I can relate. But things turned out for the best. Thank god.
Movement catches my eye as Brenna rises from the table, Aspen waving her off with a warm smile.
When my wife turns toward me, there’s something in her expression that makes my blood heat.
Her teeth worry her bottom lip, and when our eyes meet across the cafe, the look she gives me is one I know well.
Very well.
“How about an early lunch at the brewery?” Eric suggests, pulling Brenna in for a hug after she makes her way to us.
“I’m not hungry,” she says, returning to my right side, the side she always stands on when we’re next to each other, and looping her arm around my waist.
I tuck her against me, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“Another time then.” Eric claps me on the shoulder. “Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
Brenna’s fingers find the beltloop of my jeans as Eric heads down the counter to catch up with some other folks, her touch casual to anyone watching but sending electricity straight through me.
“Not hungry?” I murmur, unsurprised she turned down the lunch invitation.
Sure enough, she looks up at me, her gorgeous green eyes dancing. “Not for food.”
My cock twitches, and ten seconds later, I’ve escorted her out the door as she giggles. The sound is music to my ears. The walk to her Range Rover feels like the longest fifty yards of my life. Her hand trails down my arm as I open the passenger door for her, her fingers lingering on my wrist.
When I circle around to the driver’s side, she’s already buckled in and watching me with the heavy-lidded gaze that’s been my undoing since the first night.
“Drive fast,” she says as I start the engine, her palm settling high on my thigh.
“Sweetheart—”
“Please, Graham.” Her hand moves higher, fingers tracing the seam of my jeans with deliberate pressure. “I need you.”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I pull out onto Main Street, muscle memory taking over as her touch threatens to short-circuit my brain. The familiar road up the mountain stretches ahead of us, and I press harder on the accelerator.
Two years of marriage and she can still make me feel like that desperate man who first claimed her innocence. The difference is, now, I’ve taught her enough to be dangerous. Enough to know what drives me wild. And I’ve learned each and every inch of her. Plus, she’s mine. All mine. Forever.
“I’ll get us home,” I promise, my voice strained as her fingers work against the growing bulge in my jeans. “Safely and just as fast as I can.”
Her soft laugh fills the cab of the SUV, and I know without even looking she’s wearing the satisfied smile that means I’m in for the kind of afternoon that still has me thanking my lucky stars for that storm.