Epilogue
Three months later
Mitch
Three months. That's how long I've woken up to Delilah in my bed, her red hair splayed across my chest, her soft breaths warming my skin. Three months of coming home to her smile, to dinner cooking in my kitchen, to a house that finally feels like something more than walls and a roof. The ring burns a hole in my pocket where I've carried it for two weeks, waiting for the right moment. I've built houses with these hands, fixed broken things all my life, but nothing has ever felt as important as getting this right.
My phone vibrates against the workbench, interrupting my concentration on the jewelry box I'm making for Delilah. The screen lights up with a name I haven't seen in months: Bill Carter.
My stomach knots. I wipe sawdust from my hands and pick up the phone, half-expecting to hear another tirade or worse—silence followed by a dial tone.
"Bill," I answer, keeping my voice neutral despite the hammering of my heart.
"Mitch." His voice sounds older, more tired than I remember. "Got time for a coffee?"
Not what I expected. "Sure," I say, glancing at my watch. Delilah's at a job interview at the library, won't be home for hours. "When and where?"
"Diner on Main. Half hour?" The question in his voice is unfamiliar—Bill Carter has never been uncertain with me before.
"I'll be there."
After hanging up, I sit on my workbench stool, staring at the half-finished box. My hand slides into my pocket, fingering the small velvet pouch that holds Delilah's ring. I've been waiting, hoping that somehow Bill and I could mend fences before I asked his daughter to marry me. Not for permission—Delilah would hate that—but for peace. For her sake.
Twenty-five minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of Mary's Diner, a greasy spoon where Bill and I have shared countless meals over fifteen years of friendship. He's already inside, nursing a coffee in our usual booth by the window. His face is more lined than I remember, his shoulders slightly more stooped. Three months of silence have aged him.
He looks up as the bell above the door announces my arrival. For a moment, neither of us move. Then he nods toward the empty seat across from him.
I slide into the booth, tension twisting between us like a live wire. The waitress—a middle-aged woman who's served us both for years—approaches warily, clearly sensing the atmosphere.
"Just coffee," I tell her, not breaking eye contact with Bill.
She hurries away, leaving us in uncomfortable silence.
"You look good," Bill says finally. "Business doing well?"
Small talk. After everything, he's starting with small talk. But I'll take it.
"Can't complain," I reply, accepting the coffee the waitress sets before me. "That job for the Nelsons turned into three referrals."
He nods, staring into his mug. "Always said you were the best builder in the county."
The compliment hangs between us, a fragile bridge neither of us is ready to trust. I wait, letting him find his way to whatever brought us here.
"Saw Delilah yesterday," he says finally, his voice softening on his daughter's name. "At the grocery store."
My grip tightens on the mug, protective instinct flaring. "How'd that go?"
"She didn't see me." Regret colors his words. "I was across the store. She was... she was smiling. Looked happy." He glances up, a question in his eyes.
"She is happy," I tell him honestly. "Most of the time. Misses you something fierce, though."
He flinches, guilt flickering across his weathered face. "That's on me."
It's the closest thing to an admission I've heard from him. I take a sip of coffee, considering my next words carefully.
"We both hurt you, Bill. I don't deny that. But punishing her for loving me—that's hurting her for no reason."
His jaw works, that familiar stubbornness rising to the surface. But then his shoulders slump. "I know."
We sit in silence for a moment, those two words hanging between us, the first step toward something like forgiveness.
"I still think you're too old for her," he says finally, but the venom is gone from his voice. "Still think you should have told me sooner, before things went this far."
"Fair enough," I concede. "Can't change any of that now, though."
"No." He meets my eyes squarely. "So the question is, what happens next?"
I set down my coffee, holding his gaze. "I love her, Bill. More than I've ever loved anyone or anything. I want to marry her."
The words land between us like stones in still water, ripples of reaction moving across his face—surprise, resistance, and finally a weary acceptance.
"You asking my permission?" There's a challenge in his tone.
I shake my head. "Telling you my intentions. Out of respect for you, and because I know how much she loves you. She'd want you there, when it happens."
Bill rubs a hand across his face, the gesture so reminiscent of Delilah that my chest aches. "She always was stubborn. Once she made up her mind about something..."
"Wonder where she got that," I say, risking a small smile.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, the barest hint of the easy rapport we once shared. "Not from her mother, that's for damn sure."
We lapse into silence again, but it's less strained now, the air between us clearing like a storm passing.
"If you hurt her—" he starts.
"I won't," I interrupt, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
"Let me finish," he says, holding up a hand. "If you hurt her, I'll kill you. Friend or no friend. That clear?"
"Crystal."
He nods, satisfied. "You got a ring yet?"
I pull the velvet pouch from my pocket, setting it on the table between us. Bill picks it up, emptying the simple diamond solitaire into his palm. It's not large or flashy—Delilah wouldn't want that—but the clarity is perfect, the setting handcrafted by a jeweler friend who owed me a favor.
"She'll like this," Bill says, returning it to the pouch and handing it back. "Simple. Honest. Like you."
The approval in his voice loosens something tight in my chest. "Planning to ask her tonight."
He nods, a mix of emotions crossing his face. "Tell her..." he starts, then stops, clearing his throat. "Tell her I'd like to come by Sunday. If that's alright with you both."
I pocket the ring, relief washing through me. "She'd like that. We both would."
When we part in the parking lot, there's no hug, no handshake—we're not there yet. But Bill claps a hand on my shoulder, the touch brief but meaningful.
"Don't screw it up," he says gruffly.
"Not a chance," I promise.
***
The sunset paints the sky in shades of orange and pink by the time Delilah's car pulls into our driveway. I'm waiting on the porch, nerves making my palms sweat despite the cool evening air. The ring feels heavy in my pocket, a promise and a future I'm finally ready to claim.
She steps out of her car, hair lifting in the gentle breeze, wearing the blue dress I love—the one that brings out the green of her eyes. When she sees me on the porch, her face breaks into a smile that still hits me like a physical force.
"Hey, handsome," she calls, climbing the steps to join me. "What are you doing out here?"
Instead of answering, I pull her into my arms, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, feeling the now-familiar way her body fits against mine. She melts into the embrace, arms winding around my waist.
"Missed you today," I murmur against her hair. "How was the interview?"
She pulls back enough to look up at me, eyes bright with excitement. "I got it! They want me to start Monday, organizing the children's reading program."
"That's my girl," I say, pride swelling in my chest. "Never doubted you for a minute."
Her smile widens, and she rises on tiptoes to press a kiss to my lips. What was meant to be a quick peck deepens as I chase her mouth, unable to resist the taste of her. She makes that little sound in the back of her throat that drives me crazy, fingers curling into my shirt.
When we break apart, she's breathless, cheeks flushed. "What's gotten into you?"
Now or never. I take her hand, leading her to the porch swing I built last month specifically for this moment. We sit together, my arm around her shoulders, her head resting against me as we watch the sunset paint the sky.
"Met your dad today," I say quietly.
She stiffens against me. "What? Where? What did he say?"
"At the diner." I press a kiss to her temple, feeling her relax slightly at the gesture. "He saw you yesterday. At the store."
"I didn't see him." Her voice holds a note of regret.
"He was watching from a distance." My hand strokes her arm, soothing. "Said you looked happy."
"I am happy." She shifts to look at me, searching my face. "How was he? Was he still angry?"
"No." I cup her cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin there. "No, baby. He's coming around. Asked if he could come by Sunday."
Her eyes widen, hope brightening them to a shade of green that makes my heart stutter. "Really? He wants to see us?"
I nod, watching tears gather in her eyes. "Told you he'd come around eventually."
She throws her arms around my neck, nearly knocking us both off the swing. "Thank you," she whispers fiercely against my neck. "Thank you for being patient, for understanding how much I need him in my life."
I hold her close, savoring the moment. But there's more to say, more to ask. I gently disentangle her arms, setting her back so I can see her face.
"Delilah," I begin, my voice rougher than intended. I clear my throat, suddenly nervous despite knowing exactly what I want. "These last three months have been the best of my life."
Her expression softens, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Mine too."
"I never thought I could have this," I continue, taking her hands in mine. "Never thought I deserved someone like you. But you stormed into my life in those damn cutoff shorts and made me believe in things I'd given up on."
She laughs softly at the reference, but her eyes remain fixed on mine, sensing the weight of the moment.
"I love you," I tell her, the words still new enough to send a thrill through me. "Love everything about you—your boldness, your heart, the way you fight for what you want. The way you chose me despite everything."
Her fingers tighten around mine. "Best choice I ever made."
I reach into my pocket, drawing out the velvet pouch. Her breath catches as I empty the ring into my palm.
"I'm not good with fancy words," I say simply. "But I'm good with my hands. Good at building things that last. And that's what I want with you, Delilah—something that lasts. Something we build together, day by day, for the rest of our lives."
Tears spill down her cheeks now, but she's smiling, that radiant smile that's become my reason for waking each morning.
"Marry me," I say, holding the ring between us. "Be my wife. Let me be your husband. Let me love you for the rest of my life."
"Yes," she whispers, voice breaking on the word. "God, yes, Mitch. Always yes."
My hands shake slightly as I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly, as I knew it would—I measured her ring size weeks ago while she slept, wrapping a string around her finger and marking the length.
She stares at it for a long moment, the fading sunlight catching the diamond. Then she launches herself at me, nearly knocking us off the swing again, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that tastes of salt and joy and promises.
I stand, lifting her with me, her legs automatically wrapping around my waist. Her mouth never leaves mine as I carry her inside, kicking the door shut behind us. We don't make it to the bedroom—the couch is closer, and my need for her too urgent to wait.
I lay her down gently, my body covering hers, her hands already working at the buttons of my shirt. When she pushes it off my shoulders, I pull back just enough to help her wiggle out of her dress, leaving her in nothing but a scrap of lace that barely qualifies as underwear.
"My fiancée," I growl against her throat, the word sending a fresh wave of desire through me. "Mine."
"Yours," she agrees, arching beneath me as my hand finds the wet heat between her thighs. "Always been yours."
I worship her body with hands and mouth, tracing every curve, every freckle, every place that makes her gasp and moan. When I finally push inside her, when her body welcomes me home with that perfect, tight heat, I have to pause—overwhelmed not just by physical pleasure but by the knowledge that this woman, this miraculous, fierce, loving woman, has chosen me. Will keep choosing me, every day, for the rest of our lives.
"I love you," I tell her as we move together, the words inadequate for the depth of what I feel.
Her eyes lock with mine, hands framing my face. "Show me," she whispers.
So I do. With every thrust, every touch, every kiss, I show her exactly what she means to me. And when she falls apart beneath me, my name a cry on her lips, I follow her over the edge, our bodies and hearts and futures irrevocably intertwined.
Later, when we've made it to our bed, when she's curled against me with her head on my chest and her hand—the one now adorned with my ring—resting over my heart, I think about how we got here. About the girl in cutoff shorts who came home determined to make me lose my mind. About the man I was—lonely, rigid, afraid to want—and the man I've become with her love.
"What are you thinking about?" she murmurs sleepily, tilting her face up to mine.
I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair. "About second chances. About how sometimes the best things in life come from breaking the rules."
She smiles against my skin. "You were worth breaking every rule for."
As she drifts to sleep in my arms, her breathing evening out, I make a silent promise to her and to myself. I will spend every day of the rest of my life making sure she never regrets choosing me. I will build us a life as solid and true as the houses I raise with my hands. I will love her with everything I am, everything I have, everything I will become.
Bill Carter's daughter. My fiancée. My future wife. My Delilah.
* * *