Epilogue | Reece
Spring in Havenwood smells like fresh-cut grass and sunshine, but the air still holds that faint sweetness of winter.
The square is already buzzing as vendors set up for the spring market, and kids chase each other in and around the closed-off streets.
Music drifts from the gazebo, someone tuning a guitar for later, and the whole town hums with that easy kind of contentment you only find here.
But my attention isn’t on any of them. It’s focused on the small retail space across from The Write Brew and the woman on the other side of the window.
The “For Lease” sign that haunted McKenna every time she walked past is gone.
In its place, painted across the window in bold black script edged in white, are the words Naughty Peach Athletics.
The lettering is a perfect reflection of the fierce, flirty—and slightly stubborn—owner.
Beneath the words is the glowing heart-shaped peach McKenna designed once she finally decided to take the leap.
Boxes still litter the floor inside, half-unpacked equipment stacked near the wall and yoga mats rolled tight beside them. A small handwritten sign leans in the window: Grand Opening Soon. Every detail feels like her—equal parts grit and charm.
She’s barefoot, her hair is a sweaty mess, and there’s fresh paint on her cheek. And she’s never looked more at home.
When she finally notices me leaning in the doorway, her mouth tilts into that grin that still knocks the wind out of me. “You going to stand there and stare all day, hot stuff?”
“Probably,” I admit before finally moving through the open door. “You look good here. Love the door decorations.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t quite hide her smile. “Says the man who spent half the morning hanging mistletoe from every door in this place.”
I glance up at the tiny sprig tied with a red ribbon and shrug. “Never said mistletoe had a season.”
Her soft laugh is the same one that wrecked me all those months—erm, years—ago and still hasn’t lost its effect. “It’s April, Reece.”
“I’m just making sure we stick with tradition.”
She shakes her head, pretending to be annoyed, but her eyes soften the way they always do when she’s fighting a smile. “You know,” she says, glancing around her space, “I used to picture this window for so long I stopped believing it could happen.”
“Guess it just needed the right view,” I say, nodding toward her reflection beside mine. She swats at my chest, but the blush gives her away.
She steps closer, looping her arms around my neck, my favorite minty scent wafting from the coffee in her hand. “You realize you don’t have to chase me anymore, right?” she says.
I smile against her hair. “You realize you just gave me a tough time about mistletoe while you’re drinking a peppermint gingerbread latte, right?”
She laughs, the sound muffled against my chest. “Some habits die hard.”
“Good,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across the paint smudge on her cheek. “Wouldn’t want you changing too much.”
When she tilts her head to kiss me—the feel of her in my arms, her lips on mine—it only solidifies what I already knew.
The chase was never about catching her.
It’s always been about keeping her.