Epilogue
I folded a cozy sweater and placed it neatly in my suitcase beside a pair of well-worn jeans. Reaching for my favorite sneakers, I tucked them into the corner of the bag. The clothes I’d chosen were practical and comfortable, perfect for a two-week anniversary trip to France.
A lot had changed since Max and I had walked hand in hand into Melody’s rehearsal dinner, pretending to be a couple. It hadn’t always been easy, but it had been more than worth it.
And it was certainly never boring.
A year after we first confessed our feelings for one another, Max had proposed during a quiet dinner at our favorite restaurant. We were married the following spring in a simple, intimate ceremony surrounded by family and friends.
Not long after our wedding, the hospital where I worked closed its maternity ward, leaving me unexpectedly unemployed. At first, I’d panicked, unsure of what to do next, but Max had encouraged me to see it as an opportunity. When a better position opened up at New England General—where Max worked—I took the leap and hadn’t looked back. Working at the same hospital meant we often crossed paths during the day, sharing lunch in the cafeteria or quick kisses in the hallway. The commute had been long at first, but within a few months, we decided to sell his monstrosity of a house and move closer to the city.
Now, we lived in a beautiful condo in Boston’s Back Bay, where I didn’t have to wear three sweaters just to keep warm in the winter. In addition to lower heating bills, it was also a short drive from the hospital and within walking distance of our favorite coffee shop and restaurants. We were even talking about getting a cat!
Life with Max felt like the happiest kind of whirlwind. Even in the chaos of our new life together, he had a way of grounding me, and I never lost sight of how lucky I was to be able to call him mine.
And now, as we prepared for our anniversary trip, I couldn’t help but marvel at how much had changed—and how much more there was to look forward to.
Percy stood in the doorway of mine and Max’s bedroom, one hand gripping the frame as if she needed it to steady herself. Her eyes widened in dramatic disbelief as her gaze flitted over the clothing I’d laid out across my bed, her lips parting in horror like she’d just stumbled upon a crime scene. “What,” she finally said, her voice dripping with judgment, “are you doing?”
I glanced up, frowning. “Umm, packing? You know, for the trip I leave for tomorrow? ”
She swept into the room like a hurricane, her impossibly high heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she pointed her perfectly manicured hand accusingly at my open suitcase. “That is not packing, Hannah. That’s … that’s a cry for help.”
I snorted, grabbing another pair of jeans and folding them. “These clothes are perfect for sightseeing. Comfortable, practical?—”
“Comfortable? Practical?” Percy clutched her chest as if I’d insulted the gods of fashion. “You’re staying at the Four Seasons Hotel George V. Not going antiquing in the Berkshires. Where are the silk blouses? The tailored trousers? The impossibly chic scarf that will make everyone think you’re secretly French?”
I shook my head, laughing, as I placed a soft wool sweater I’d crocheted on top of the folded jeans. “I’m going to be walking around the city for miles—in winter—exploring museums, eating way too many croissants, and drinking too much wine. I don’t plan on walking any runways.”
“But you could look like you were,” she argued, snatching the sweater from my suitcase and holding it up like it had personally offended her. “This? In Paris? Non, ma chérie. Absolutely not.”
Rolling my eyes, I plucked the sweater out of her hands and tucked it firmly into the suitcase. “Percy, I’m not trying to impress anyone. Max loves me just the way I am, and I’m not going to ruin our trip by wearing uncomfortable clothes.”
She groaned and flopped onto the bed, letting out a long, gusty sigh like the drama queen that she was. “I adore you, but this is Paris we’re talking about. You don’t just go there dressed like … like an American tourist.”
“But I am an American tourist,” I said, arching an eyebrow that dared her to argue with my logic.
Percy sat up, her eyes gleaming with determination. “But you’re also Hannah Carlisle-Bennett, wife of the dreamiest doctor in America, and you’re celebrating your wedding anniversary in the fashion capital of the world. I won’t let you embarrass me by wearing sneakers to the Louvre.”
I crossed my arms, smirking. “First of all, these sneakers you’re hating on are all the rage right now. If they’re good enough for a duchess, they’re good enough for me. And second of all, the Louvre is massive, and I’m not wrecking my feet just to look fancy for the Mona Lisa.”
She sighed dramatically. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re ridiculous,” I shot back, grinning. “But I love you anyway.”
Percy tapped a finger against her lips, clearly scheming. “Fine. Keep your sneakers, but at least let me add a few things to your suitcase.”
I hesitated, narrowing my eyes at her. “Nothing over the top?”
She held up three fingers in a salute. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay, fine,” I relented. “But only because I know you won’t stop pestering me otherwise.”
Percy clapped her hands, practically bouncing with excitement. “You won’t regret this, I promise. Parisians will be asking you for fashion advice.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I very much doubt that.”
Percy winked, pushing to her feet. “Let’s go find Max before he burns the risotto. He might be hot, but I still don’t trust that man’s skills in the kitchen.”
“Why not? You know Max is a much better cook than either you or me.”
She shot me an amused glance out of the corner of her eye. “That’s not saying much, and we both know it.”
“You’re in a mood today,” I observed as we linked arms and made our way down the hallway.
Percy sighed, the sound filled with resignation. “I know. I’m sorry. I got stood up again last night, and it’s put me in a funk. I thought this one had potential, but clearly, he didn’t feel the same way about me.”
“His loss then,” I said, leaning my head against hers in a show of support.
Percy’s fortieth birthday was fast approaching, and the closer we got to it, the more aggressively she’d thrown herself into the dating pool. At this point, I wasn’t sure there wasn’t an app she hadn’t tried, all with the same unsatisfying results.
My brother was going out of his mind listening to her describe all the horrible dates she’d been on every time the four of us got together. I thought he was going to keel over and die right there on the spot the night she’d told us about the one that hadn’t been a disaster—a wild, sexually adventurous night with a 25-year-old who’d approached her at a networking event saying, “I’m usually bad at math, but I’m pretty sure you and I add up perfectly.”
At some point, David was either going to have to tell Percy how he felt or accept that she was going to find someone else, but if anyone could understand why he was too afraid to admit his feelings, it was me. Until then, I’d promised I wouldn’t say anything, but at moments like this, it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to suggest Percy give David a shot when clearly she was willing to date every asshole in Massachusetts.
Percy and I stepped into the kitchen to find Max standing at the stove, his back to us, stirring something that smelled absolutely mouthwatering. The rich aroma of garlic and white wine filled the air, and the faint hum of his favorite jazz musician played from the speaker in the living room. His broad shoulders flexed as he moved, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealing muscular forearms dusted with golden hair. It was a sight I’d never tire of.
Percy’s heels clicked on the hardwood floors as she made her way to the island and hopped onto a barstool. “What’s for dinner, Dr. Dreamboat?” She sent a wink my way before resting her chin in her hand.
A few months ago, Max was featured in an article about the innovative work he’d done at the hospital, and the accompanying photo showed him out on his boat. As a result, a number of the comments on the article had nicknamed him “Dr. Dreamboat,” a moniker he absolutely hated, while Percy and David couldn’t stop teasing him about it.
Max turned, a wooden spoon held in his hand, and shot her a playful glare. “Risotto. And yes, you’re welcome to stay even though you’re annoying.”
Percy feigned offense, placing a hand over her chest. “Me, annoying? Well, I never.”
I laughed, crossing the room to kiss Max on the cheek. “How’s it coming?” I asked, peeking into the pan.
“Almost done,” he said, returning his attention to the pot. “How’s the packing going? Did Percy let you finish, or did she hijack the whole process?”
“Hijack is a strong word,” my best friend interjected. “I merely stepped in to prevent a sartorial catastrophe.”
I rolled my eyes, leaning against the counter. “She’s convinced that if I don’t pack a trench coat and ankle boots, the Parisians will refuse to let me enter the city.”
Max chuckled, his green eyes sparkling as he looked at me. “You didn’t pack those jeans, did you?”
Had I packed the Levis I’d purchased almost 15 years ago that I’d worn so many times they were soft as butter against my skin with holes in the knees and frayed ankles? Why yes, yes I had.
“Not you, too!” I laughed rather than admit I’d done precisely that lest Percy run back to my bedroom and pull them out of my suitcase. She’d been threatening to burn them for years. “I thought you liked those jeans. You always tell me my ass looks great in them.”
Max’s expression turned molten, and he set the spoon down to step closer, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Your ass looks great in everything,” he said, his voice low, as he nipped at my lips.
My belly clenched, my core throbbing at the raw, needing tone of my husband’s words. Years later, I still couldn’t get enough of him. Thankfully, the feeling was entirely mutual.
Percy let out an exaggerated sigh from her perch at the counter. “You two are disgustingly sexy and adorable. It’s almost enough to make me believe in love.”
I smirked, turning to glance over my shoulder at her. “Almost?”
“Let’s not get carried away,” she quipped, waving me off with a grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go fish out those jeans I know you’ve hidden at the bottom of your suitcase. Really, Hannah.”
As Percy disappeared into the living room, Max pressed a hungry, lingering kiss to my mouth and tightened his hold around me. “I booked us a room with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Eiffel Tower.”
“Ooh, nice,” I said, not entirely understanding why a view of the Parisian landmark would have his voice dropping to this low, husky rumble.
“Very nice,” he murmured against my lips. “Remember the night we got together, and I mentioned all the ways I’d been dreaming about you for years.”
I tilted my head as he kissed a path over my jaw and down my neck, where he bit down softly. “Mmm-hmm,” I breathed out, barely about to form a coherent thought with his lips on my skin. “And?”
“Two years before that, I was at a conference in Paris. Same hotel. Instead of going out with some of my colleagues that night, I went back to my room. As I lay in bed, I fucked my hand and fantasized about all the things I wanted to do to you.”
“What sort of things?” I asked as one of his hands reached between my thighs to cup my pussy over the barrier of the leggings I had on, the heel of his palm rubbing against me. My hips rolled forward as he continued his slow, wonderfully agonizing torture.
“I’m going to fuck you up against those windows, Mrs. Bennett.”
I let out a breathy moan, biting down on my bottom lip to stifle the sound lest Percy hear us from the bedroom at the far end of the hallway.
“You like the idea of that, Han?”
“Oh god, yes,” I moaned.
“You want to come on my cock with all of Paris watching your beautiful face?”
I wasn’t an exhibitionist—and neither was Max—but the idea of him fucking me like that—the fantasy of it all—was enough to make me come for him now. I collapsed against him, my teeth digging into his shoulder as I rode out the wave of pleasure.
Eventually, I tilted my head back to meet his gaze, my heart swelling at the tenderness in his eyes. “You’re such a kinky bastard,” I teased, my breathing still not back to normal.
Max patted my pussy, and my clit throbbed in response. “So are you, wife. So are you.” He kissed me deeply then, whispering against my lips, “Later, I’ll fuck you up against our bedroom windows, and we’ll call it practice.”
Before I could respond, Percy called out from down the hall, “I’m coming back in, you perverts!”
I broke into surprised laughter and collapsed against my husband’s chest.
No, life with Dr. Max Bennett was certainly never boring.