Epilogue
Julie
I t’s officially been three weeks since we buried Mrs. Waverly, and yet somehow, I still catch myself glancing toward the flower shop expecting to see her tiny frame wrestling with a watering can or yelling at the mayor’s wife over improperly clipped petunias.
Instead, there’s scaffolding. And the sound of a nail gun.
“Careful!” a man yells from above as a shower of sawdust flutters down like gritty snow. I duck back into the doorway of Seaside Sweets just in time to avoid a face full of cedar shavings.
Marcus stands beside me, holding two cups of coffee and watching the construction with narrowed eyes. “That ladder isn’t OSHA compliant,” he mutters into his cup.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “I’m pretty sure your idea of ‘compliant’ is making everyone sign a waiver before breathing.”
He sips, unbothered. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
The front of Waverly Blooms is unrecognizable. The old weather-worn shutters are gone, replaced with sleek matte-black ones. New flower beds line the base of the windows, prepped for planting. There’s a sleek, modern sign resting against the porch rail with elegant calligraphy that reads Waverly Blooms & Botanicals .
Candace, bless her type-A heart, has thrown her entire developer soul into reviving the shop, and rumor has it the new owner is… intense.
“She’s supposed to be some kind of botanical consultant from Savannah,” I murmur, still peeking out the door. “Hotshot. Big reputation. People say she’s all business and allergic to small talk.”
Marcus smirks. “Sounds like someone I know.”
“I like small talk,” I say innocently.
“No, you like caffeine-fueled tangents and emotionally charged cupcake metaphors.”
“And you love it,” I shoot back.
He doesn’t deny it. Just leans over and presses a kiss to the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My chest warms.
We’ve had a lot of those moments lately—quiet, steady ones that feel like breathing after holding it for too long. Real talk, hard truths, and late-night whispers in my bed that make me feel like maybe, just maybe, I’ve found something permanent.
He told me everything. About his last deployment. The parts he’d kept buried so long they were practically fossilized. And in return, I told him about losing my mom when I was just a kid. About how my dad did the best he could, and how much I still miss him—even now.
That was the moment we really stitched ourselves together. Not just sex or late-night cravings or grumpy flirtation.
Just… us. Two people with rough edges and soft centers who somehow fit.
“I think I’m nervous,” I admit, glancing at the florist shop again.
“About the new girl?” Marcus asks.
“About all of it. What if she hates this town? What if she sells the shop to someone who turns it into a vape lounge or a cat yoga studio?”
He grunts. “If someone tries to install a vape bar in Mrs. Waverly’s old place, I will personally throw them into the ocean.”
I laugh. “You’re very romantic.”
“I try.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, sipping our coffee and watching the construction chaos unfold next door.
“Whatever happens,” he says quietly, “we’ll figure it out. Together.”
“Together,” I echo, sliding my fingers into his free hand. I believe him with everything I’ve got. Even if the mysterious, overachieving florist next door turns out to be the nightmare everyone says she is—we’ll weather it.
Preferably with muffins and a backup hard hat.
* * *
It’s a slow Tuesday morning, the kind I used to dread but now kind of love. The sky over Pelican Point is the softest shade of cotton-candy blue, and the warm scent of cinnamon and butter hangs thick in the air like a hug.
The bakery is bustling—not chaotic, but full. Happy chatter. Tinkling mugs. Someone’s baby is laughing in the corner, and I swear if I bottle that sound, I could retire tomorrow.
Behind the counter is Marcus… in an apron.
I wish I had the foresight to take a picture because this man, who once looked like he’d rather face down a bank robber than a cupcake tray, is currently wearing a black apron with the Seaside Sweets logo on it—and a smudge of flour on his cheek.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I tease as I lean over to swipe the smudge from his face.
“I’m literally just handing a customer their coffee,” he grumbles, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.
“You’re supposed to wink when you hand it off. Adds flair.”
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t wink.”
“Well, you do now.”
“Is that in the employee manual?”
“No. It’s in the boyfriend handbook.”
That earns me a low chuckle that vibrates straight down to my toes. God, I love that sound.
“Remind me why I agreed to help out again?” he asks, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Because you love me,” I say without hesitation.
He pauses. “Damn right I do.”
I lean in, feeling the magnetic pull that still hits me like a wave even after everything. “And also, because I promised you free pastries.”
“Mostly that,” he deadpans. But he’s already leaning down, and when his lips brush mine, it’s not hurried. It’s soft. Familiar. Home.
I melt into it, just a second longer than I should. The customer at the counter coughs awkwardly.
“Sorry!” I chirp. “New employee. Still training him.”
Marcus gives them a look that clearly says I’m not sorry , and I elbow him gently in the ribs.
We go back to work—him pretending to hate it, me pretending not to swoon every time he passes behind me and casually rests a hand on the small of my back. This man. This grumpy, steady, soft-in-the-middle man who once thought he wasn’t capable of love, now folding bakery boxes and learning the difference between scones and biscuits.
Out the window, Pelican Point rolls by. A dad walking his twins. Emma arguing with Miles about something. Candace directing a construction team outside the florist shop. Sophie chatting with that new marine archaeologist across the street.
The town is alive.
So am I.
So are we.
Marcus reaches over the counter and laces his fingers with mine, and I glance up at him, heart full to the brim.
Pelican Point is buzzing with life and love with us right in the middle of it all.
Together.