Epilogue Roxy
The mountain air had turned crisp by the time we made it back to our suite, both of us pleasantly worn out from a full day of wandering the resort's fall craft fair.
My arms were loaded down with a hand-thrown pottery mug, a jar of local honey, and a ridiculous knit hat Liam insisted made me look like "an adorable lumberjack's wife," which, given the circumstances, felt like an entirely appropriate compliment.
The alpine lift ride afterward had been the real highlight, though.
Liam and I had spent an hour suspended high above the mountainside, the whole valley spread out beneath us in a stunning wash of gold and burnt orange and deep, rich red.
Liam's arm was wrapped around my shoulders the entire ride, keeping me warm, both of us content to just watch the world slowly shift colors around us in awed silence.
It still struck me sometimes, how strange and wonderful it was that we'd ended up here. Married again, properly this time, in a small, simple ceremony in Niall's backyard two weeks ago, surrounded by the same loud, boisterous family that had once terrified me and now felt like home.
We'd booked this ski resort for our honeymoon almost as a joke, both of us laughing over the absurdity of choosing a mountain destination in the height of autumn, months before the first snowfall.
But it turned out to be perfect anyway. It was quiet, beautiful, and entirely ours, filled with fall festivals and cider tastings and long, slow days that had nothing to do with danger or family business or anything except each other's company.
"We've got a couple hours before our dinner reservation," I said, toeing off my boots by the door, already eyeing the enormous, plush bed dominating the suite's bedroom. "I was thinking about a nap."
"Not on my watch." Liam's voice carried a familiar, mischievous warmth as he came up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, lips finding the curve of my neck. "I'm not letting you nap on our honeymoon, Mrs. Murphy."
"It's not exactly our first wedding night," I pointed out. "And I'm tired."
He turned me gently in his arms, that same crooked, unguarded smile on his face that I'd fallen in love with at eighteen and had somehow fallen in love with all over again. "I can think of several much better ways to spend the next two hours than sleeping."
"We do have dinner reservations at seven," I reminded him, though the protest came out considerably weaker than I intended, especially as his hands found the hem of my sweater with clear and deliberate intent.
"Then I guess," he murmured, backing me slowly toward the bed, "we'd better make good use of the time we've got."