Epilogue
Atlanta
One Year Later
“I can’t believe you talked me into wearing this ridiculous sweater.”
I adjust Holden’s collar, smoothing down the knitted reindeer that spans most of his strong chest. “It’s festive.”
“I look like a department store threw up on me.”
He does. But his whole family got them to wear in their annual holiday photo, which I was included in.
He’s not envious of his brother and sister anymore, although their sibling rivalry is still strong.
He opened up to his parents about his insecurities, and to say they were stunned at how he felt was like saying the Grinch never stole Christmas.
We’re at the Hope Peak holiday kick-off at the community center, manning the “Letters to Santa” station and helping children write their wishes.
A lot has changed in a year.
Four months ago, I officially accepted the VP of Interior Design position at Big Sky Architecture.
Before stepping into the role, I’d insisted on shadowing other VPs of Design first, spending four months sharpening my skillset at firms in Bozeman and Missoula.
I also took some business classes, and when I finally stepped into the role, I was ready. More than ready.
“Miss Atlanta!” A little girl with pigtails tugs on my sweater. “How do you spell ‘trampoline’?”
I crouch down, helping her sound it out, and when I look up, Holden’s watching me with that expression. The one that makes my insides melt.
After a little while, the Millers arrive with their grandchildren, who immediately run to show Holden drawings they made. Mrs. Miller pulls me aside.
“That yard decoration is still the talk of the neighborhood. But more than that, we’re grateful for what you two did. You made us feel seen.”
My throat tightens, remembering when Holden finally admitted to the Millers what he had done. He surprised the couple with fall yard art that mimicked their old inflatables. “You made us better people.”
“No, dear. He did that himself.” She pats my cheek. “You just loved him enough to let him.”
As the event winds down, Holden’s niece Bailey runs over, her brown curls bouncing.
“Uncle Holden! Mommy says you’re coming to my birthday party next month!”
He scoops her up, spinning her around. “Wouldn’t miss it, munchkin.”
She was the star of this year’s recital, which I attended with Holden and his family. His brother, Bennett, was there, who is almost a twin of my man. I’m surprised a woman snatched him up.
We spend the next two hours enjoying the people of Hope Peak: August from the repair shop, Rosalie from Peak Sweets, and Tessa from The Velvet Book. Carter even volunteered to wear a fuzzy Grinch head and hand set, wandering around and being silly for the kids.
After the last family leaves, Holden and I bundle up and step outside into the cold night. The snow falls softly, Hope Peak’s Main Street glowing with holiday lights.
“Want to walk?” he asks, taking my hand. “My sister can drive the family back to the house.”
“Always.”
We invited them to Hope Peak to enjoy the holiday kick-off. My brother, Aspen, is here, somewhere, talking to Penny near the Christmas tree.
We stroll past Perfect Brews where Holden lets people get in front of him then past the hardware store where his quarterly “Ask an Architect” events draw crowds.
“I’ve been thinking,” Holden says, his breath visible in the cold air. “About the property. The 110 acres.”
My heart skips.
“I want to start the design process. With you.” He stops walking, turning to face me. “I want to build our dream home, Atlanta. Not mine. Ours.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Holden—”
He gets down on one knee. “Will you marry me, Atlanta Creekmore?” He grins. “I want you to design a life with me. Literally and figuratively.”
I jump at him, knocking him backward into the snow.
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a hell yes.”
He kisses me right there on Main Street, snow falling around us, and I taste happiness and home and forever. When we pull apart, our family cheers, having formed a circle around us. Somehow, our parents are in Hope Peak, and even my cousin Capri with her husband Zane and their three children.
He brought all of my favorite people here. I love this man so much.
Something catches my eye. Across the street, standing near an old red vintage truck, its bed full of Christmas trees, is Santa. He looks just how Holden had described him a year ago, his piercing blue eyes watching us from behind round spectacles.
“Holden,” I whisper. “Look.”
He turns, following my gaze.
Santa tips his hat, that knowing smile on his face. Then he reaches into his red coat and pulls out the small notebook. Even from this distance, I can see him flip through the pages, his gloved finger tracing down entries.
He looks up, meets Holden’s eyes, and nods once. Slowly. Deliberately.
A nod that says, You learned. You grew. You became the man you were meant to be.
Then he closes the notebook, tucks it away, and climbs into the vintage truck. The engine rumbles to life, and he drives down Main Street, disappearing into the falling snow.
“Did that just happen?” I ask.
“I have no idea.” Holden pulls me closer. “But I’m not questioning it. His curse was the best thing that happened to me.” He kisses my temple. “It gave me you.”
“You already had me,” I correct. “You just finally figured it out.”
He laughs, and the sound is rich and full and so different from the hollow laugh he had a year ago.
This Holden is the one who shows up for his family, who volunteers his time, who treats his employees with respect, who loves me without conditions.
And this is the man I fell in love with all those years ago.
“Come on,” I say, tugging his hand. “Let’s go celebrate.”
As we walk through Hope Peak, I think about good deeds and curses and the strange magic of second chances.
Santa was right. The best things in life can’t be designed or controlled. They are the little moments with the people we love.
And once we’re alone, I’m going to show Holden just how much I love him by jumping on him and having my way with him.
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xoxo,
Aubrey
***
Atlanta's feistiness runs in the family! What happens when Zane Wyatt attempts to throw social media darling and single mom Capri Sutton off his ranch? Sparks, that's what!
Find out more in Influencing the Rancher, or keep reading for a Chapter 1 preview!
Chapter 1
Capri
“What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”
A truck door slams somewhere behind the ranch’s barbed-wire fence, but I ignore the rugged voice.
It’s the golden hour in the influencer world, the time of day right before sunset when the sun’s rays cast a warm, natural glow that’s ideal for photos.
Ten minutes remain of this perfect Hill Country light before my shot is ruined, and I’m not about to waste them explaining myself to a man who has no say in how I run my business.
“Hey. Princess.” The cowboy raises one hand and snaps twice. “I’m talking to you.”
Did he really just snap his fingers at me? Even my four-year-old knows better.
I whip around to give the jerk a piece of my mind but am momentarily stunned into silence.
The hottest man in the south stands at the ranch’s fencing, a tight white t-shirt showing off his tanned, sculpted muscles.
Ink swirls down both of the stranger’s arms, the intricate designs eclectic and intriguing.
You’ve seen a male before, Capri. Stop staring like he’s a dessert bar.
Unfortunately, my brain does not listen to reason.
The guy’s faded jeans grip his physique in the yummiest of ways, and to top it off, he’s wearing a backward ball cap—my personal kryptonite—with blond wisps of hair peeking out from underneath.
A short beard dusts his square jaw, and I am going to melt into a puddle right now.
Hot Guy’s eyes slowly rake over my body.
Sure, my dark hair falls in waves past my shoulders, and okay, my skin has been called flawless, and fine, my curves have been known to make men forget their own names.
Do I mind the attention? Not usually. Teenage me didn’t know there were members of the opposite sex who appreciate a voluptuous woman, and she’s still inside me somewhere celebrating.
As if clearing out rocks, Hot Guy shakes his head, then taps a worn cowboy boot on the bottom fence rail. “I’m waiting, Princess.”
Seriously?! Screw him and that deep, throaty voice.
Flicking my hair over my shoulder, I throw up a hand and start counting with my fingers.
“One, I’m not a dog, so snapping won’t work on me.
” A hawk soars overhead and settles on a nearby post as if watching our exchange.
“Two, thank you for recognizing a royal pedigree when you see one. My Tudor ancestors would be proud.” The bird of prey cocks its head, its beady eyes locked on us like it’s judging who’ll back down first. “Three, this side of the fence is county property. There are no laws prohibiting me from taking photos here.” It’s true.
I always verify that no area bylaws will prohibit me from posting certain pictures to my socials.
Arms crossed over his chest, Hot Guy quirks an eyebrow at me, so I quirk an eyebrow right back. A movement catches my eye, so I turn.
The hawk shifts on the fence post, one leg tucked under its body, its eyes sharp and judgy. Let’s go, bird. My mascara’s waterproof, and my patience is petty. I’m not backing down.
But why are this guy’s biceps so big and bulgy? And why am I even noticing them? I swore off all men eight months ago, particularly grumpy, gorgeous types who think the world should bend to their will just because they exist.