Epilogue
Hazel
I once wrote a story about a girl who loved a boy so much, she shaped him into someone better. But that’s not how love works in real life. You can’t rewrite someone into being who you want them to be. And for the longest time, I thought I was doing exactly that. But I wasn’t. Because I fell for Campbell Atwood as he was. Flawed. Stubborn. Reckless. Loyal. Passionate. Mine .
I inhaled, pressing my palms against the cool surface of the signing table to steady myself. The line stretched out the door, curving past the rows of bookshelves that filled Ellis & Atwood Books , the cozy bookstore Campbell bought for me a year ago. It still smelled like fresh paper and ink, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee drifting from the corner cafe. My name gleamed in gold letters across the glass window.
Hazel Ellis–Bestselling Author of Vicariously.
It felt like a dream I hadn’t yet woken up from. A year ago, I never would’ve dared to imagine this moment—sitting at the center of a room full of readers who cared enough to line up, waiting for me. The girl who had once been afraid to even put her words out into the world. Now, I was here, watching people connect with a story I never thought I’d be brave enough to tell. People who understood the love I wrote about. The kind that burned and bruised, but was always worth it.
My hands trembled as I reached for the pen, my gaze lifting just in time to meet the eyes of the next person in line. She was holding my book to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t quite name. I smiled as she approached, trying to hide the knot of emotion thickening in my throat.
“I can’t believe I’m meeting you,” she whispered, her voice shaking with excitement. “This book changed my life.”
I swallowed against the lump that formed in my throat. My heart swelled with an emotion I couldn’t quite name.
“Thank you so much.” I whispered back, my voice barely a breath as I took the book from her, signing the inside cover with a steady hand, even though my pulse raced.
The moment the book was handed back, I felt it. That warmth. That pulse of awareness that always came before I saw him.
I lifted my gaze and found him standing there, leaning against the shelf, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me with that look. That familiar, intense gaze. It was a look I had spent months trying to understand. But I didn’t need to understand it. I just felt it. He wasn’t saying anything. He didn’t need to. His lips quirked into that same damn smirk that made my heart do a stupid flip. He was wearing his hockey jacket and his hair, as always, was messy, falling over his forehead in the way that made him look untouchable. He was the boy who could destroy you and then put you back together again. He raised a brow, nodding toward the line. Proud of you , his look seemed to say.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling too widely, shaking my head as I signed another book, my heart fluttering in my chest. When I glanced up again, he had slipped away, weaving through the shelves, disappearing from sight. It wasn’t long before the line thinned, and then a book slid across the table in front of me. But it wasn’t Vicariously . It was The Great Gatsby . I blinked, staring down at the worn, dog-eared cover, my fingers hovering over the pages. I glanced up at Campbell, but he only shrugged, his hands shoved into his pockets, a playful glint in his eyes.
“You want me to sign this?”
My voice was a breath of disbelief, quiet in the stillness between us. A knowing smile tugged at his lips, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“What can I say? Figured I’d read one of your favorites.”
My chest tightened, and a lump formed in my throat. It hit me like a wave. How much had changed. How much he had changed. Not because I made him, not because I wrote a perfect version of him. But because he chose to change. He chose to stay. He chose me . Because love wasn’t just words. It’s action.
I picked up my pen and, without thinking, flipped open the book to the first page. I wrote, my hand steady despite the sudden surge of emotion. When I finished, I slid the book back across the table to him, watching as his eyes flickered over the note I’d written. It wasn’t long before a soft chuckle escaped him, his thumb running over the gold-embossed cover of The Great Gatsby as he shook his head, his gaze returning to mine with that familiar spark.
To Campbell Atwood: NHL’s newest draft pick, occasional pain in my ass, and the only boy I’ll ever write about.
He met my gaze, his eyes softening in a way that made my breath catch.
“Bragging about me again, Ellis?”
I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face, tilting my head in playful defiance.
“You bragged about me first.”
His eyes flickered to my signature again, then back to me, his thumb brushing over my name. There was something so intimate in the gesture. I almost didn’t trust my heart to hold the weight of it.
“Damn right, I do.” He said, winking. “You’re my future wife, after all.”
And in that moment, standing there with Campbell—who had never been the boy I thought I could change, but had instead become the man I needed him to be—I realized something that left me breathless. He wasn’t the story I’d written. He was better. And he was mine. Forever.