Epilogue
Sorrel
One Year Later...
It’s Christmas Eve at the chalet, and I’m basically living my childhood fantasy except with significantly better gift wrap and way more expensive booze flowing in the kitchen.
The tree Gregory had Thomas install in the great room reaches all the way to those ridiculous cathedral ceilings, and underneath it looks like Santa’s workshop exploded. There are presents everywhere. Like literally everywhere.
The entire base of the tree is completely buried under wrapped boxes.
They’re spilling out across the floor in a three-foot radius.
There are also presents stacked on the sectional.
Presents on the coffee table. I’m pretty sure I saw presents tucked behind the fireplace screen.
It’s like Gregory said “Christmas” and his credit card had a seizure.
My modest contribution of ten gifts I wrapped in my apartment looks absolutely pathetic next to this retail avalanche. I can’t even see the tree skirt anymore. It’s just wrapping paper and bows as far as the eye can see.
And the best part? Gregory remembered. I’m talking about that conversation we had last year on Christmas Eve, when we were stuck here and got talking about my childhood Christmases.
About how my parents would wrap chocolates separately and put ties in individual boxes just to make the pile look bigger. To make it feel magical.
Gregory apparently heard “mountain of presents” and thought “challenge accepted.”
Though I suppose there are also a lot more people here than just my family, so not all the presents are from him.
And yes, my parents are here. And he also flew my roommates in from Boulder.
Thomas and Vin brought their families. And even Marcel showed up with his partner, looking remarkably un-butler-like in a colorful Christmas-themed cashmere sweater with a big green tree on the front.
This is my life now. I’m the girl who has a butler at her Christmas party. What even is reality?
I’m sipping some eggnog when Mom picks up a present and squints at the handwriting.
“Sorrel, dear, is this from you?” she asks. “To Gregory, From... Marcel’s Condom Factory?”
I snort so hard eggnog nearly comes out my nose. “Yep. That’s mine.”
God, sometimes I have no shame.
Gregory glances over from where he’s helping Dad with the fire, and his mouth twitches. That’s his I’m-trying-not-to-laugh-in-front-of-your-parents face. I’ve gotten very familiar with that face over the past year.
Gregory’s hair is getting longer, and he’s got a faceful of stubble because he forgot to shave this morning.
He’s wearing jeans and a short-sleeved henley today.
.. no designer cashmere in sight. Still, that henley does nothing to hide those broad shoulders I’ve mapped with my hands and lips approximately eight hundred thousand times.
Mom hands the present to Gregory.
“Open it,” I urge, still grinning like an idiot.
He tears into the wrapping, and inside is a French press. The really nice kind. Not the cheap one he couldn’t figure out a year ago.
“So you can make terrible coffee anywhere,” I explain. “Even when I’m not around to supervise.”
“I’ve gotten better,” he protests.
“You really haven’t.” I’m laughing now, and so he is.
My dad chuckles, too, accepting a beer from Thomas. “When are you going to put a ring on this girl, Gregory? Before she realizes she can do better?”
Oh god.
I freeze and shoot dad an infuriated look. “Dad. So not helping.”
But Gregory just shrugs and grins.
I busy myself distributing more presents because suddenly I’m blushing and I don’t want anyone to see. Especially not Gregory with his stupid observant blue eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
I realize I’ve just given out more of my own presents. You know, the ones I labeled myself.
Vin reads his. “To Vin, From... Gordon Ramsay’s Anger Management Clinic?” He looks baffled.
I’m giggling so hard I can barely breathe. “Because of that time you threw a spatula at the smoke alarm!”
Vin shakes his head but he’s grinning.
Marcel reads his. “To Marcel, From... The Bahamas Cabana Girls?”
Now I’m wheezing. Marcel looks torn between amusement and professional dignity. His wife doesn’t look overly thrilled, however.
“To Dad, From NASA’s Landscaping Division,” Mom reads, completely deadpan.
I’m the only one laughing at that one. Story of my life.
Look, it’s Christmas. It’s literally the one time of year I can get away with turning gift labels into elaborate inside jokes that only I find hilarious. They’re my presents. My terrible sense of humor. My right to be absolutely ridiculous about it.
And honestly? Watching people’s faces when they read them is worth every confused look.
The morning quickly dissolves into wrapping paper chaos.
My roommate Jenna opens her gift from me and immediately squeals.
It’s snow boots. One of the four pairs Gregory bought me because apparently ‘one pair of boots’ isn’t in his vocabulary.
Figured I’d give it a good home since Jenna and I are close to the same size.
Meanwhile Vin’s kids are losing their minds over some robotics kit. Thomas unwraps a bottle of scotch that’s probably older than I am and actually looks moved.
Then Gregory hands me a small box. Not ring-sized. Bigger.
It simply says “To Sorrel.”
“Open it,” he says quietly.
Inside is a snow globe. But not just any snow globe. It’s this incredibly detailed miniature version of the chalet. Perfect down to the stone chimneys and the wraparound deck. Tiny trees surrounding it. And when I shake it, snow swirls around the little house.
Oh no.
I’m going to cry in front of everyone.
“It’s our bubble,” he murmurs.
“I love it,” I manage, my voice thick. “It’s perfect.”
Mom’s definitely crying. Jenna is filming on her phone. Dad’s grinning like he knows something I don’t.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of presents and wrapping paper as we chip away at the mountain under the tree.
It’s like a festive bomb went off. Thomas’s youngest is literally swimming through the debris like it’s a ball pit.
Mom keeps trying to fold the paper for reuse because old habits die hard, but there’s just too much.
Even she admits defeat around present number seventy-three.
Gregory got everyone something. And I mean everyone. Vin’s kids each have like six gifts. Thomas got new tools for his workshop. Marcel unwrapped noise-canceling headphones and a laptop.
When Dad opens a high-end telescope he actually tears up.
“For the landscaper who’s always looking at the stars,” Gregory says quietly, and oh god, I’m going to cry too.
By the time we hit the bottom of the pile, everyone’s exhausted and happy and there’s literally nowhere to walk without stepping on ribbon. Gregory and I tackle the worst of the wrapping paper carnage while people gather their things and kids are collected from various napping locations.
After a flurry of hugs and goodnights, everyone’s either retreated to guest rooms or headed home.
It’s just me and Gregory in the great room, and god, this space.
The fireplace where we first slept together, where we fought and made up, where we fell in love.
The sectional where we spent a week basically living on top of each other.
I’m wearing his Columbia hoodie. The same one from that first night twelve months ago. It’s worn soft now, and still smells like him.
Gregory’s building up the fire, and I can’t stop watching the way his forearms flex, and the way his shoulders move under the henley. After a year, you’d think I’d be used to how stupidly attractive he is.
I’m not.
“Good to see you finally celebrating Christmas,” I say, curling up on the sectional. “Though I think you went a tad overboard with all the presents?”
He glances back, and his smile is this soft thing that still surprises me. “Just a tad. But hey... I have a reason to celebrate Christmas now. Anniversary of when we met.”
“When I showed up desperate and hypothermic on your doorstep, you mean?”
“When you showed up and changed everything,” he corrects, settling beside me.
There he goes again, saying things that make my stomach do the butterfly stroke.
“How’s the research going?” he asks. “You’ve been cryptic about the latest data.”
Oh god, he asked.
He actually wants to hear about mycorrhizal nitrogen transfer rates.
I’m going to marry this man.
I launch into an explanation about the spring field sites, about how the network restoration in the Colorado test plot exceeded our projections by fifty percent, about how the fungi are literally rebuilding soil structure in areas that were basically moonscapes two years ago.
I’m gesturing wildly, probably looking completely unhinged, but Gregory’s watching me like I’m describing the secrets of the universe instead of dirt microbes.
“What?” I ask finally.
“You’re brilliant,” he says simply.
Nope.
Not blushing.
Definitely not.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box.
Smaller than the snow globe box.
Unwrapped.
Oh god, is that--
“I know we’re still figuring things out,” he starts. “Your dissertation defense was three months ago, the restoration initiative is in startup chaos, and we’re navigating two cities. But Sorrel--”
I kiss him before he can finish. Just launch myself across the couch and kiss him hard enough that we almost topple backward.
He’s laughing against my mouth. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“You were going to ask me to marry you,” I say breathlessly, “probably with some beautiful speech about mycorrhizal networks and symbiotic relationships. Am I wrong?”
“Not even a little.”
“The answer is yes!” I kiss him again, and can’t help the sudden tears of joy.
He pulls away long enough to slide the ring on my finger.
It’s perfect.
A simple platinum band with a small stone that catches the firelight. Nothing ostentatious. Nothing that screams I’m-engaged-to-a-billionaire.
Oh my god.
I’m engaged.
Engaged to Gregory Falk.
“Did you ask my dad for permission?” The question just pops out.
“Of course.” He looks almost offended I’d think otherwise. “He said yes. Also told me if I hurt you, he knows how to make bodies disappear.”
I laugh so hard I nearly fall off the couch. “That’s absolutely not something Dad would say.” Then I become serious. “Wait a second, on second thought, actually it is.”
Gregory pulls me to standing. “Dance with me.”
“There’s no music,” I protest.
But he’s already pulling me close, one hand on my lower back, the other holding mine. We sway in the firelight, and it’s quiet except for the crackling logs and distant wind outside.
This is happiness.
This moment.
“Thank you for getting lost in my blizzard,” Gregory murmurs against my hair.
I can’t help but grin. “Thank you for finding me.”
He kisses my forehead. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper.
The ring catches the light, and I’m watching it sparkle.
We’re stronger when connected.
Gregory moves us toward the window, and I realize it’s snowing outside. Big fat flakes drifting down, covering the helicopter pad, along with the path to the wood storage area where the cougar stalked us, and the roof where we almost died.
My eyes drift to the snow globe he gave me, sitting on the coffee table. Inside, the miniature snow is still swirling around the tiny chalet.
“Look,” I whisper. “It’s snowing in the globe, too. Did you shake it?”
“Wasn’t me.” He glances at the table, and then his arms tighten around me. We stand there, next to the window, in each other’s arms, dancing to music only we can hear.
Sometimes a storm to shake things up is exactly what you need.
“Ready for our next adventure?” Gregory asks softly.
I lean my head against his chest, watching the snow fall, feeling the ring on my finger, surrounded by his warmth and the warmth of the fire we built together.
“With you?” I ask. “Always.”
Can’t bare the thought of leaving Gregory and Sorrel just yet? Discover what’s next for this sexy couple in an exclusive second epilogue you won’t find anywhere else.
Thanks for reading!!