Epilogue
Mason
The rich scent of my vanilla latte filled our apartment as I sorted through the new shipment of books.
Even on my day off, I couldn’t resist unpacking them—the excitement of new stories never got old.
I set aside the ones I’d ordered for myself for evening reading, a habit Caleb had come to expect from me.
Every night before bedtime, I’d read aloud a few chapters while he sketched, his pencil scratching against paper, as the words washed over us both.
One year. We’d been living together for a year now, and the thought still gave me a thrill.
Our apartment—not mine anymore, but ours—had transformed into a perfect blend of both of us.
Caleb’s art books mingled with my novels on the shelves.
His collection of paintings hung beside my vintage book cover posters.
His drawing table sat by the window where the light was best, while my reading chair occupied the cozy corner nearby.
The business arrangement had exceeded all our expectations.
Tides & Tales had seen a thirty percent increase in foot traffic since we’d begun our collaboration with local artists.
The events room was booked a solid six months in advance for exhibitions, readings, and community gatherings, bringing in additional income.
Jack’s rent provided a financial cushion, but it was no longer essential.
The bookstore ran in the black every month, even during the winter.
And Caleb…Caleb had flourished as the owner of Coastal Light Gallery.
Under his direction, the gallery had developed a reputation that extended beyond Seacliff Cove, attracting artists from across the Bay Area who might never have considered showing in a small coastal town.
He’d maintained Mary Anne’s commitment to local artists while bringing in fresh perspectives that energized the community.
Most importantly, we’d built a life together—ordinary in its day-to-day rhythms, extraordinary in its joy.
Morning coffee. Shared meals. Late-night murmured conversations after making love.
The gentle choreography of two people moving through space together, learning and relearning each other’s patterns.
Not that it had been perfect. We’d argued about stupid things—whose turn it was to do the dishes, whether we should set the thermostat at sixty-five or seventy, how to arrange the furniture.
We’d navigated the complications of being both romantic partners and business collaborators.
We’d each brought our own baggage—my fear of abandonment, his guilt over our past.
But we’d worked through it all. Together. And somewhere along the way, the old wounds had begun to heal.
The apartment door opened, and Caleb walked in, looking slightly breathless. He wore casual clothes—a soft camel sweater that brought out the gold flecks in his eyes and worn jeans that hung perfectly on his trim frame.
“There you are,” he said, as if he hadn’t known exactly where I’d be. “Can you come down to the events room? I need your opinion on a painting.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you need my artistic opinion?”
“Since always,” he said with a smile that still made my heart skip. “Please? It won’t take long.”
I set aside the book I’d been examining—a new release on coastal architecture that I knew would appeal to Todd’s artistic sensibilities. “Lead the way.”
Caleb seemed unusually quiet as we descended the stairs to the bookstore. His hands were in his pockets—that nervous tell I’d come to recognize so well. Curious now, I followed him through the main floor of Tides & Tales.
Caleb had transformed the events room since the previous exhibition. He’d arranged the pieces differently from what I’d seen during yesterday’s setup, grouping them by theme rather than artist to create a narrative flow through the space.
“You’ve been busy.” I absorbed the changes. “It looks amazing.”
“Look at the far wall,” Caleb said, his voice soft.
I turned toward the wall in question, and my breath caught.
There, in the place of honor, hung a painting I hadn’t seen before.
It showed two figures from behind, holding hands on a beach at sunset.
One slightly taller than the other, their silhouettes unmistakable against the brilliant orange and pink sky.
Us.
The technique was familiar—the careful brushwork, the attention to light and shadow, the emotional resonance of the composition. I’d seen it in the sketches that littered our apartment, in the small studies Caleb worked on late at night.
“You painted this.” Not a question, but a realization. “I didn’t know you were painting again.”
“I started again because of you,” he said simply. “I’ve been using the studio at the gallery.”
I moved closer to the painting, drawn to the intimacy it captured. The two figures stood facing a horizon painted in shades of possibility. The title card beneath it read, Second Chance.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. I turned to tell him how much it meant to me, how proud I was of his return to painting.
But Caleb wasn’t standing behind me anymore. He was on one knee, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes, holding a small velvet box.
My heart stopped, then raced forward.
“Mason,” he began, his voice steady despite the tremor I could see in his hands.
“Twelve years ago, I made the biggest mistake of my life when I left. I chose a different path, and it took me far too long to realize that no success, no achievement, no gallery or museum could ever compare to being with you.”
He took a deep breath, and I found I couldn’t breathe at all.
“This past year has been the happiest of my life. Every morning I wake up beside you feels like a gift I never thought I’d have again. Every day we build this life together, I’m grateful for second chances.”
He opened the box, revealing a white gold ring inlaid with a band of diamonds.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you—running our businesses, building our home, facing whatever comes next, together. I don’t want to waste another day, another moment. Mason Carter, will you marry me?”
I hastily wiped at my misty eyes. In that moment, every fear, every doubt, every lingering worry about the future simply…vanished. All I could see was Caleb, all I could feel was the overwhelming certainty that this—us—was exactly where I was meant to be.
“Yes.” My voice broke on the word. “God, yes.”
I pulled him to his feet and into my arms, kissing him with all the love and gratitude and joy that overflowed within me.
His arms wrapped around me, as strong and sure as they had been that day during the storm, that evening in the back room, that day when the loan came through. Always finding their way back to me.
When we finally broke apart, he slipped the ring onto my finger with hands that shook slightly. It fit perfectly.
“I was so nervous,” he confessed, resting his forehead against mine. “I’ve been planning this for months. I nearly ruined the painting twice.”
I laughed, wiping away tears. “Is that why you’ve been so secretive about your days off?”
“I wanted it to be perfect.” His smile was radiant, transforming his handsome face into something almost unbearably beautiful. “You deserve perfect.”
“This is perfect,” I said, gesturing to the room around us, to the painting, to the ring on my finger, to the life we’d built. “We’re perfect.”
Outside the bookstore, Seacliff Cove continued its Monday routine—tourists wandering the streets, locals going about their business, the ocean steadily meeting the shore as it had for millennia. But within these walls, everything had changed. Again.
Twelve years ago, we’d lost our first chance. But life, in its infinite wisdom, had given us a second one. And this time, we’d gotten it right.
Want to spend more time in Seacliff Cove? Order Tides of Change, Seacliff Cove Book Two. It’s Deputy Sheriff Garrett Whitlock’s suspenseful story!