Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Bryan
I never thought I’d say this, but apparently—I like shopping.
Not just any shopping, mind. I’m not talking about being elbowed by pensioners over the last tin of Quality Street or queued up behind tourists debating whether a snow globe or a singing shamrock makes the better stocking stuffer.
No— this is different. This is us shopping.
Me and Harper, arm in arm, weaving through the twinkle-lit maze of home décor and holiday chaos. And for once, we’re not looking for trouble. We’re looking for throw pillows.
And maybe a rug.
Possibly curtains.
Fuck me.
If Sean finds out I spent half an hour debating the merits of a velvet ottoman versus a leather one, he’ll never let me live it down.
Brendan will just ask if I’m dying.
And Tag—Tag’ll smile like the smug bastard he is, already nesting with Laine and the soon-to-arrive Baby Q like a king preparing for the next generation.
But I don’t care. Because Harper? She’s smiling .
She’s still got an intensity simmering just beneath the surface—I think that’s just her—but the steel in her spine has softened a little.
Since handing off her research to the anti-crime task force a couple of weeks ago, she’s been on a quiet emotional rollercoaster. Trusting others is hard for her. Letting go of control? Even harder.
But she did it. And something in her shifted.
The woman beside me now, dressed in a fleece hoodie, tight jeans, and her combat boots, holds a pair of pale blue pillows up to study. She is fierce and radiant and lighter than I’ve ever seen her.
“This color would look amazing against the charcoal walls,” she says, spinning to face me. “It will bring a little softness to the chrome and leather.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re saying my room has a biker fetish?”
She grins. “I love the whole biker bad boy edge, but yes.”
“Noted.” I take the pillows from her and pretend to examine them critically. “I mean, these are nice… soft but still manly… much like myself.”
Harper snorts. “Oh my God. You’re impossible.”
I lean in. “Yet strangely, you keep kissing me anyway.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she drifts over to a display of vintage candle holders shaped like twisted Celtic knots. I follow her, admiring the way her fingers skim the surfaces like she’s imagining them in our space.
Our space.
It still catches me in the chest every damn time.
I used to think of my suite in the Quinn castle as my cave—dark, brooding, mine. But now? Now I want Harper’s personal touch in every corner. I want her vanilla and jasmine shampoo in my shower. I want her clothes in my drawers and her hair in my sink. I want a home that smells like her, looks like her, feels like her.
“You like those?” I ask, nodding toward the candleholders.
She hesitates. “Are they too much? They’re kind of bold.”
“So are you.”
That earns me a real smile. She sets two into the cart, then turns to survey the shop with a hand on her hip. “What else are we missing?”
“Throws. Something soft,” I say, eyeing a faux fur blanket that looks like it was made for winter seduction.
Harper eyes it too, then raises a brow. “That looks like a trap.”
I grin. “A very comfortable, highly effective trap.”
She laughs and tosses it into the cart. “Fine. But if you expect sex every time I get cold?—”
“I always expect sex.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks go pink, and I take that as a win.
We wander the shops for another hour, gathering odds and ends—a woven iron basket for beside the hearth, a few books she insists are essential, and some delicate glass ornaments shaped like wolves—very on brand and masculine, she says.
We even find a rug. Midnight blue, thick and soft with silver thread running through it like veins of moonlight.
She crouches down to run her hand over the lush pile. “Oh, I could write a novel on this rug.”
Sold.
By the time we make it to the till, our cart is a patchwork of blues and silver, sparkles and soft, masculine lines softened by her sensual touches.
And I’m one hundred percent on board.
While we wait for the cashier, I glance over at her, and something proud and possessive twists in my chest. Ever since she said she wanted to ‘go home’ in Paris, I’ve known she’s well and truly mine.
She’s happy. Peaceful. Settling in for the long haul.
“Hey,” I murmur, threading my fingers through hers. “Thanks for doing this.”
She gives me a questioning look. “For shopping?”
“For helping me turn a room into a home.”
Her gaze softens. Her thumb strokes over my scabbed and scarred knuckles. “The bones were strong and always there… I’m just adding a little softness and flair.”
The look she gives me makes it clear she’s talking about more than the decorating of my room, but she’s right. I’m still me, just less angry and ready for a future.
“Hey, I have somewhere I’d like to take you. Are you hungry?”
* * *
The scent hits me the second we step through the front doors—ginger, cardamom, masala, and something sweet baking in the back. It pulls me back—like it always does—to a simpler time. A time before heartbreak and darkness. A time of love and of belonging.
I never thought I’d get back to that place again.
Ashwin’s breathes around me. It’s more than a restaurant—it’s a heartbeat. Warm, welcoming, alive.
The soft clatter of dishes, the melodic shuffle of Hindi and English from the kitchen, the faint sitar music weaving through the dining room, all wraps around me like a familiar embrace.
Harper slows beside me, eyes wide, taking it all in. She looks good—her leather jacket open, scarf looped loose around her neck, and cheeks pink from the wind outside.
Nervous energy crackles off her, though she tries to hide it. She’s been steady all day, but I know what this means to her.
Meeting them .
The parents of the first woman I ever loved.
I’ve been coming back regularly—slowly rebuilding something I lost after Yasmine died. It took me four years to walk back through those doors.
It took being in Harper’s life less than a month to give me the strength to try.
“Bryan,” Riya calls, her voice soft and bright as she rounds the corner from the kitchen. Her sari is deep maroon tonight, gold embroidery glittering in the low light, her dark hair braided and coiled in a knot at the base of her neck.
She sees Harper, and her whole face lights up.
“ Mera beta ,” she murmurs, drawing me into a hug that smells like sandalwood and cinnamon. “You’ve brought her.”
Harper smiles politely, hand half-raised, but Riya doesn’t hesitate. She crosses to her and pulls her in, hugging her with both arms.
“Thank you,” Riya says softly. “For bringing him back from the dark. We’ve missed him. We’ve prayed for him. And now…” She draws back, brushing Harper’s hair behind her ear. “He’s here. Whole again.”
Harper blinks. “It’s… it’s really nice to meet you.”
Riya loops an arm through hers like they’re already family. “Come meet Ashwin. We will have dinner.”
Harper shoots me a look as she’s whisked away, but I just grin and follow. “Welcome to Riya’s world. Resistance is futile.”
The kitchen is a blur of color and motion—steam rising from silver pots, copper pans clanging, the sizzle of garlic hitting hot oil. A young cook stirs a pot at the back while Ashwin hovers over the grill, flipping skewers of paneer and lamb with expert flicks of his wrist.
He looks up as we enter and grins, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. He wipes his hands and claps me on the back before nodding to Harper. “And this must be her, yes? The one with fire in her heart.”
Harper’s eyes widen.
I laugh, grinning like a lovesick fool. “This is her.”
Ashwin grins and turns to one of his staff. “Nikhil, you’re in charge for the next hour. If anything catches fire, call the fire brigade—not me.”
Nikhil laughs and salutes with his ladle.
Ashwin loads a tray with dishes—butter chicken, saag paneer, basmati rice, two stacks of naan, and some spiced chickpeas that I know are going to ruin Harper in the best way.
Riya sets a tall silver teapot and a plate of sweet ladoo on a second tray and I take it from her before she guides us toward the back stairwell. “Come. We’ll share a meal and get to know our new daughter.”
* * *
The apartment above the restaurant is a world away from the bustle below. Quiet. Cozy. Lined with warm colors and soft textiles. The scent of spice lives in the walls and so does the memory of laughter.
Family photos are tucked into every surface—frames arranged on floating shelves, mantels, even strung on a string of fairy lights near the window.
Harper slows as we step inside, her eyes drawn to the display along the hallway. I follow her gaze and feel the familiar ache rise in my chest.
Yasmine.
In one, she’s barefoot in the garden, henna-stained fingers tangled in her hair. In another, she’s laughing in the backseat of my truck, mid-summer, eyes squinting at the camera I held. There are dozens more—her in graduation robes, hugging her parents, dancing at a wedding.
And me, in many of them. A younger, lighter version of myself.
Harper steps closer, eyes soft. “She was so beautiful.”
“She was,” I agree.
She looks over her shoulder at me. “And so were you. Look at this guy.”
I swallow hard. This is why I love her. Why she owns every last breath in my lungs.
She’s never been threatened by Yasmine’s ghost.
She’s never tried to erase her.
She’s never made me feel like I had to lock part of myself away.
Instead, she smiles at the girl who held my heart before her, and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together.
After everything I’ve done, I know I don’t deserve this woman. But I’ll spend every day of forever making sure she knows I see her. That I’m thankful.
Before I can say anything, Ashwin claps his hands and gestures to the table. “Come. Let’s eat.”