Epilogue
POWELL
New Year’s Eve in Huckleberry Creek had its own kind of magic—quieter and less chaotic than the Twelve Stops.
It was more like the aftermath of a good storm when the air is scrubbed clean and everything seemed possible again.
Lights still criss-crossed the square, all warm gold.
The gazebo had been transformed into a little winter stage where half the town had taken turns performing.
Kids ran around with glow sticks. Somebody’s dog wore a sequined bow tie. Typical.
What wasn’t typical was standing in the middle of it with Jess’s hand in mine.
Not because she was trying to warm it or because she needed an escort or because we happened to be walking in the same direction.
No. Her fingers were tangled with mine simply because she liked it.
Because she wanted to. Because she’d pulled my hand to hers the moment she stepped out of my truck earlier that evening like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That small, quiet certainty—she wants to—hit harder than anything else had in the last two weeks.
She’d done the Twelve Stops debrief meeting yesterday, leaning against the counter in my kitchen with her hair in a messy knot and her glasses sliding down her nose while she talked through what went well and what she wanted to improve next year.
We’d eaten leftover Christmas cookies for lunch and kissed next to the sink like teenagers until we’d ended up being very, very late to grocery shopping.
She’d teased me about my spice alphabetization; I’d teased her about her color-coded refrigerator sticky notes.
Ordinary things. Mundane things. Beautiful things.
Tonight was more of the same. Not fireworks or declarations or sweeping romantic gestures, just this steady, warm presence beside me in a way that made my chest seem too full sometimes.
Her cheeks and nose were bright from the cold.
Every few minutes she lifted our joined hands to tuck them into one pocket of her coat like she was hoarding warmth.
My warmth. I didn’t mind. I would’ve given her my entire coat if she’d asked, but she’d rolled her eyes and kissed my cheek when I tried.
She glanced up at me as we navigated around a group of teenagers trying to master some TikTok dance move in front of the gazebo. “Are you cold?”
“Not even a little.” It was almost true. The night had the sharp, bright kind of cold that woke you up instead of numbing you, but the heat of her leaning into my side was more than enough to counter it.
She studied me for a second, her brow crinkling with that little line she got when she wasn’t sure she believed me. “You could lie. I wouldn’t know.”
I nudged her lightly with my shoulder. “You’d absolutely know.”
That earned me a soft huff of laughter. “Fair.”
We passed by Mrs. Kane’s candied-nut stand, still open for the holiday even though Christmas was officially over. Jess slowed at the smell—cinnamon, sugar, roasted pecans—and her stomach gave a tiny audible growl.
She glanced at me, mortified.
I grinned. “Hungry?”
“That was the sound of appreciation, not desperation.”
“You want some?”
She hesitated for all of two seconds before the cold won. “Maybe a little. I skipped dinner because someone kept distracting me.”
“I don’t recall that.”
Her eyes narrowed in amused accusation. “You literally pulled me onto your lap and—”
I dipped my head toward her ear, voice low. “You want candied nuts or you want to finish that sentence?”
She flushed immediately, which I counted as a personal victory. “Nuts,” she muttered. “The candied kind.”
“Sure?” It would take very little persuading to get me to take her back to her place—it was closer to here than mine—and pick right back up for a reprisal of exactly what I’d done to her in my lap.
“Powell.” Her glare was somewhat undermined by the pretty pink that flushed her cheeks. Yeah, that whole scenario had been living rent-free in her brain for the past few hours, too.
I laughed and tugged her toward the booth. From behind it, Mrs. Kane spotted us and lit up like she’d been waiting specifically for this moment.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite couple,” she said, beaming. “Happy almost-New Year!”
Jess made a noise somewhere between a cough and a groan. “Mrs. K, we’ve talked about labels.”
“I didn’t hear a no,” Mrs. Kane sing-songed as she scooped warm pecans into a paper cone. “You want these on my tab, sweetheart?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Absolutely not.”
She winked. “Then that’s five dollars.”
I paid before Jess could and nudged my girl toward the edge of the square where the old oak tree was wrapped in glittering lights, roots spreading out to create a small, semi-private alcove of shadow and glow. Jess tucked herself back into my side like it was her default setting.
We stood there eating candied pecans, watching families and couples and kids move through the glow. The countdown was still half an hour away, but people already buzzed with that anticipatory holiday energy—hopeful, nostalgic, ready to believe the next year could be better.
Jess’s voice broke into my thoughts, soft and a little unsure. “This feels weird.”
“Weird bad?” I asked.
“No. Weird… nice.” She exhaled a small laugh, breath clouding the air. “Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
I turned a little toward her. “You still thinking about Pie Hard?”
She winced. “A little.” Then she loosened her shoulders, and let her head rest briefly against my arm. “But it’s mostly my own brain being an asshole. Not them. Not you.”
I took her hand again and squeezed. “You’re allowed to have moments. Doesn’t mean you’re starting over from scratch every time.”
She considered that for a moment. “You’re very annoyingly reasonable.”
“Comes with the job.”
She looked up at me, eyes bright beneath the lights. “Thank you. For being patient with me.”
“Jess,” I said quietly, “you don’t need to thank me for that.”
Her gaze softened, a warm slide of affection that hit somewhere deep. “I do. Trust doesn’t magically appear just because you want it to. It’s a practice. A muscle. I’m working on it.”
“You’re doing great.”
“That’s debatable.”
“No,” I said firmly, “it’s actually not.”
She smiled, small and shy in a way she almost never let herself be. “I really like you.”
I swallowed, heart doing something stupid behind my ribs. “I really like you too.”
Her smile stretched wider. “Yeah, I know.”
I kissed the top of her head, letting myself revel in the weight of her tucked against me like this was something we’d been doing forever instead of just a couple of weeks. And then, because I’d been thinking it all night, I said, “You staying over tonight?”
She made a noncommittal hum that told me she’d already decided but wanted to make me work for it. “I didn’t pack anything.”
“You think I care if you have matching pajamas?” Hell, I was more than happy to have her with no pajamas at all. All night long. And I’d already made sure to add a spare toothbrush in the bathroom.
“Matching pajamas?” She snorted. “I don’t even own matching pajamas.”
“I know,” I said. “You stole my sweatshirt three days ago and haven’t given it back.”
She did not look remotely guilty. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“You want to claim legal custody of my hoodie, you gotta move in.”
She choked on a pecan. “I—what?!”
“I’m kidding,” I said immediately, holding up my free hand even though she was already smacking my chest. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
“Powell Ferguson.”
“What?” I asked, laughing. “It was a joke.”
“It was not a joke.”
“Okay,” I admitted, sobering. “It wasn’t a joke. But it wasn’t a proposal either.”
Her cheeks pinked again, this time for a different reason. She looked away for a second, then back at me. “Maybe someday.”
The words dropped between us with surprising weight—a soft, careful promise wrapped in hope.
Warmth spread through my chest in a slow, steady bloom. I squeezed her hand again. “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe someday.”
She leaned her head back against my shoulder, and we stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in the glow of the lights, the hum of the square, the anticipation of something beginning rather than ending.
As the countdown crept closer, people gathered in tighter clusters. Kids climbed onto their parents’ hips. Teenagers shoved each other playfully. Someone started passing out sparklers. Mrs. McKenzie shouted at someone to mind their coat hem before they set the whole place on fire.
Jess angled toward me again. “You ready for this?”
“For a new year?”
“For the part where people kiss at midnight.”
I smiled. “I think I can handle that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Confident.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
She laughed outright at that, and God, the sound of it—light and unguarded and real—felt like something worth protecting.
The clock tower began its countdown, and the crowd chanted along.
“Ten!”
Jess pressed closer, her hand sliding up my chest to curl lightly at my collar.
“Nine!”
Her eyes lifted to mine, warm and steady now.
“Eight!”
“You sure you’re ready?” she murmured.
“Seven!”
“I’ve been ready all night.”
“Six!”
“Smartass,” she whispered, but she was smiling.
“Five!”
“Your smartass,” I corrected.
“Four!”
Her breath hitched again, soft and sweet.
“Three!”
I dipped my head a little closer.
“Two!”
“Happy almost New Year,” I said quietly.
“One!”
And then she rose onto her toes and kissed me.
It was nothing like the tentative, nervous beginning we’d had.
Nothing like the heat of the barn or the careful, aching sweetness of the Twelve Stops.
This one was sure—grounded—full of everything we’d survived to stand here now.
Her fingers slid into my hair. My arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against me as fireworks exploded above the square in bright showers of gold and white.
The crowd cheered. Kids screamed. Confetti cannons popped.
But all I felt was her.
Jess. Warm and solid and kissing me like she wasn’t afraid of the future anymore.
When she finally pulled back, breath mingling with mine, she whispered, “Okay. I’m ready for this.”
“Yeah?” I murmured, brushing my thumb along her jaw.
She nodded, eyes soft. “Yeah.”
“Good,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Because I’m all in.”
She looked up at me with a smile so full and bright it put the fireworks to shame.
And in that moment—standing in the middle of my hometown with the woman I’d wanted since I was seventeen curled in my arms, the new year blazing above us—I knew exactly what the future held.
Not perfection. Not certainty.
But us.
Choosing each other.
Every damn day.
And that was more than enough.
I hope you enjoyed this wild little enemies to lovefrs, forced proximity holiday romp. I know you want to see a little bit more of Powell and Jess—and the delightfully adorable Esmerelda. Grab your bonus epilogue here:
Be sure to check out the other Hot Shots and Heroes of Huckleberry Creek!