Epilogue
KENSEY
Two months later
Istood in my new classroom at Westbrook Prep, our old high school, surrounded by the organized chaos after the first week.
Student work samples covered one bulletin board.
My desk was buried under papers. The whiteboard still had remnants of today’s lesson on it.
My classroom. The words still felt surreal.
I’d applied after seeing the opening. I honestly didn’t think they would give me the time of day.
I was still a young teacher. When they’d called me in for an interview, I’d walked these same halls I’d walked as a teenager and felt something click into place.
This was where I was supposed to be. When they’d offered me the position two days later, I’d cried.
Now here I was, a week into the school year, finally getting into a rhythm with my students.
The first few days had been rough. I was still learning names, establishing routines, figuring out which kids needed extra attention and which ones would thrive with independence.
But today, Friday, had gone smoothly. My last period class had actually laughed at one of my jokes. That felt like progress.
I was going to have to get used to the fact everything was digital here. Rich school. Everyone had laptops. The essays about their summer were all waiting in the portal for me to grade.
My phone buzzed.
Drew: How’d your day go?
Me: Good! Just packing up. Still on for dinner?
Drew: Absolutely.
Me: Perfect. See you soon.
I did one last sweep of the room, making sure everything was in order. Chairs pushed in, lights off, door locked. Then I headed down the familiar hallways toward the parking lot to my new used car. Drew tried to buy me one, but I refused. I needed to stand on my own two feet.
I drove home. Home. It was weird to call his mansion home, but it did make sense to live with him. We spent every night together and it cut my commute by fifteen minutes. I parked in the garage and made my way inside.
I could smell something incredible as I walked in. Garlic, tomato sauce, fresh bread. I smiled. We were supposed to be going out.
“Drew?”
The kitchen island was covered in takeout containers from Marino’s, my favorite Italian restaurant in the city.
Not just a few containers. Dozens of them.
Pasta in every variety. Chicken parmesan.
Eggplant rollatini. Meatballs. Garlic bread.
Salad. Tiramisu. Cannoli. It looked like he’d ordered half the menu.
“There’s my hot teacher,” he said. He pulled me into his arms. “Damn, I missed you.”
I laughed. “I was only gone eight hours.”
“Too long.”
“Drew.” I turned to look at him. “What is this?”
“I figured you might want to stay in after a long week.” He looked almost nervous, like he wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing.
“We can still totally go out if you want. I can put all this in the fridge and we can head to the restaurant. I just thought maybe you’d rather be comfortable.
No waiting for a table, no getting dressed up, no heels. ”
I kissed him. Hard. Cutting off his rambling with my mouth on his.
“This is perfect,” I said against his lips. “Absolutely perfect.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. This is so much better than going out. Thank you.”
He grinned and pulled me close, his arms wrapping around my waist. “Good. Because I really wanted to keep you all to myself tonight.”
We stood there for a moment, just holding each other in the kitchen surrounded by enough Italian food to feed a small army. I felt the stress of the week melting away.
“Come on,” he said eventually, pulling back. “Let me take care of you.”
He led me to the couch, gently pushing me down onto the cushions. Before I could protest, he was kneeling in front of me, pulling off my shoes.
“Drew, what are you doing?”
“Shh.” He picked up my left foot and started massaging, his thumbs digging into my arch. “Just relax.”
I groaned, my head falling back against the couch. “Oh my God. You are so good at this.”
“I’m going to get plenty of practice.”
“It feels so good. But the food; it’ll get cold.”
“It can wait twenty minutes.” His hands moved up to my ankle, working out knots I didn’t know I had. “You’ve been on your feet all day. You need this.”
I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. The massage felt too incredible. I closed my eyes and let him work, his strong hands kneading away the tension in my feet and calves. Every touch was intentional and careful, like he was trying to erase the entire week’s worth of stress through his fingertips alone.
“You’re too good to me,” I murmured.
“Impossible. I could never be good enough to you.”
He switched to my other foot, giving it the same thorough attention. I felt myself melting into the couch, my body going boneless and relaxed. This man. This incredible, thoughtful, perfect man who’d upended his entire life to be with me.
I loved him so much it physically hurt sometimes.
I woke up early Saturday morning, Drew’s arm heavy across my waist. The sun was just starting to filter through the bedroom windows.
I was still getting used to the idea of living in such a grand place.
I could hear the waves through the open window that I insisted on.
I loved the fresh breeze. I loved the small and the sound.
I lay there for a moment, listening to his breathing, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back.
Then I remembered the ingredients I’d bought earlier in the week.
Blueberry muffins. His favorite. I’d been planning to make them for days but the timing had never been right.
This morning felt perfect. I carefully extracted myself from his arms, holding my breath as he shifted but didn’t wake.
Once I was free, I grabbed one of his shirts from the floor and pulled it on, padding quietly out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
I started the coffeemaker first, then pulled out all the ingredients I’d stashed in the pantry. Flour, sugar, fresh blueberries, eggs, milk, butter. I’d even bought the good vanilla extract from the fancy grocery store downtown. Drew refused to let me pay rent, so I had some disposable cash.
I moved around his kitchen with familiar ease now.
I knew where everything was. Which drawer held the measuring cups.
Which cabinet had the mixing bowls. This place had become mine without me even realizing it was happening.
I had put my fingerprint on it with my colorful towels and hot pads. My cookbooks were on a shelf.
The batter came together quickly. I folded in the blueberries carefully, making sure they were evenly distributed.
Then I filled the muffin tin and slid it into the preheated oven.
Twenty-five minutes. I set the timer and poured myself coffee.
I carried it to the window to stare at the ocean.
It was a bit of a gray morning. Perfect for fresh muffins.
The smell started after about ten minutes. That incredible aroma of baking that made the whole house feel warm and lived in. I checked through the oven window as the muffins rose, their tops turning golden brown.
The timer went off just as I heard footsteps on the stairs. I grabbed the oven mitts and pulled out the tray, setting it on the cooling rack I’d already positioned on the counter.
“Is that what I think it is?” Drew’s voice was rough with sleep.
I turned to see him standing in the kitchen in nothing but boxer briefs, his hair sticking up in about seventeen different directions.
He looked adorable and rumpled and I wanted to eat him up.
I had feasted on his body last night. The evidence of our lovemaking was staring at me with three stripes across his chest from my nails.
“Blueberry muffins,” I confirmed. “But they’re still too hot. You have to wait.”
He crossed the kitchen toward me, his eyes locked on the muffins like they were a pile of gold bars. “How long?”
“At least ten minutes. They’ll burn your mouth if you try now.”
“Worth it.” He reached for one.
I grabbed the dish towel off my shoulder and threw it at his face. “Drew! I’m serious. Wait.”
He caught the towel with one hand, grinning. Then he used it to pull me in by the wrist, tugging me against his chest. His other hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across what I could only assume was flour.
“You have flour everywhere,” he murmured, his voice still gravelly from sleep.
“Hazard of baking.”
He kissed my cheek, right where the flour was. Then my jaw. Then the corner of my mouth. “Thank you for making my favorite muffins.”
“You haven’t even tasted them yet. They could be terrible.”
“Impossible.” He kissed me properly this time, slow and thorough. “Everything you make is perfect.”
I melted against him, my hands sliding up his bare chest. I could feel his heart beating steady and strong beneath my palm.
When we broke apart, he was smiling that smile I loved. The one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and showed all his teeth. The one that was just for me.
“Coffee?” I offered.
“Please.”
I poured him a cup, adding cream the way he liked it. He took it with a grateful sound and sipped.
“What time did you get up?” he asked.
“Maybe an hour ago. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s perfect.” I leaned back against the counter. “I just wanted to do something nice for you. You’ve been taking care of me all week. The foot massages, the dinners, dealing with my stress about the new job. I wanted to return the favor.”
His expression softened. “You don’t have to return anything. I do those things because I want to.”
“I know. But I still wanted to.”
He set his coffee down and crossed to me, caging me in against the counter with his arms on either side of me. His forehead came to rest against mine.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
“I love you too.”
“And that means I do things for you,” he said. “I like doing those things.”
“And I appreciate all of it.”
“Can I have a muffin now?” he asked against my lips.
I laughed. “Yes. They should be cool enough.”
He pulled away and immediately grabbed one, breaking it open with his hands. Steam rose from the center. He took a huge bite, closing his eyes like he was tasting something divine.
“Oh my God,” he groaned. “Kensey. These are incredible.”
He took another bite, blueberry juice staining his lips. “Best muffins I’ve ever had.”
I watched him devour the entire thing in about four bites. Then he reached for another.
I grabbed my own muffin and bit into it. He was right. They were good. Really good. The blueberries were perfectly tart, the muffin itself light and fluffy. I’d nailed it. I usually had to settle for frozen blueberries. I missed LA and all the fresh produce.
“So what’s the plan for today?” I asked.
“I was thinking we could be lazy. Stay in, watch movies, order food later. Maybe go for a swim.” He picked up his coffee again. “Unless you want to do something else.”
“That sounds perfect.”
A whole day with nothing to do but be with him. Just us in this beautiful house with the whole weekend stretching out ahead of us.
I noticed him staring at me. He had hat look in his eyes I recognized immediately.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just appreciating the view.”
“I’m wearing your old T-shirt and probably have flour in my hair.”
“Exactly.” He crossed back to me, his hands finding my waist. “You’re perfect.”
I laughed and let him pull me closer. His mouth found mine again, tasting like coffee and blueberries. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him. He picked me up, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist. I squealed and held on as he carried me back toward the stairs.
“Drew! Put me down!”
“Nope.” He kissed my neck. “You made me muffins. Now I’m going to show you how grateful I am.”
I laughed the whole way up the stairs, my heart so full I thought it might burst. This was my life. This beautiful, ridiculous, perfect life with Drew Blackwell.
And I wouldn’t change a single thing.
***