Epilogue
Phoenix
Five months later
T he Konig clan and extended family are gathered in beautiful, snowy Aspen, Colorado.
My father, brothers, and I spend Christmas here or at the family house on Catalina Island.
It’s our first Christmas together, and since Michaela has never been to Aspen, it was a logical choice.
Dad owns a cabin here, Slate and Wilder share one, and I bought Barron’s cabin to keep it in the family and because I always loved his place.
All three cabins are in close proximity of one another. It’s the same for our cousins’ cabins.
Dad is chilling at his place—no doubt nursing a glass of smooth whiskey in front of the fireplace while enjoying a gripping crime and thriller book.
Slate and Wilder headed straight from the private jet to the ski slopes upon arrival this morning.
Roman should arrive in a few hours. He’s still wary from his surfing accident, so for the first time since he was three years old, he’s not hitting the slopes.
I’m skipping skiing. My wife doesn’t ski. I suggested the kiddy slopes, but the flash of panic glinting from her eyes had me changing my mind. Lucky for her, there’s no shortage of other outdoor activities to enjoy in Aspen.
“I dread snow, but out here, it’s so beautiful,” Michaela says, shaking off the snow as we enter the cabin.
“That’s because New Yorkers are pussies when it comes to a little snow.”
“True.” She removes her pale pink cashmere hat, matching scarf, and mittens before shrugging out of her puffy white down coat.
She runs manicured fingers through her hair, her wedding ring and band glimmering under the light.
I’ve grown accustomed to seeing them on her finger, but it doesn’t lessen the pang of pride that hits me every time.
This gorgeous, feisty, vivacious woman is mine.
She spikes the end of her hair for style. “I must look like a wet cat.”
“No, kitten, you look hot.”
She offers a bright smile.
She’s still sporting jet black hair and her trademark pixie cut. She considered growing it out, but when I told her how much I loved her hair short––and the easy access to her slender neck––she reconsidered.
She toes off her boots.
I follow her lead and shrug out of my winter clothes.
“Snow in Aspen two days before Christmas. You can’t ask for much more,” she says, entering the living room.
I follow right behind her.
“I love California and I would never live in Colorado year-round, but snow on Christmas Day is magical.”
She rubs her hands together. “I second that.”
I grab them into mine, bring them to my lips, and drop a kiss on her soft skin. “You’re still cold?”
The temperature has been unseasonably low in Colorado this December.
“ ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ .” She sings the bridge to the icon song.
I chuckle. “The wind was biting. Not to mention, it was a long walk.”
“It was, but I’m so happy you took me. What an incredible, picture-perfect winter wonderland.”
“Nothing compares to Aspen at this time of the year.”
She trembles, her teeth chattering.
“Let me light up a fire,” I say. “It’s not warm enough in the cabin.”
I took Michaela on one of my favorite trails. It offers enchanting scenery of the area, but it’s a good trek through the snow and the trees.
As we were ending our discovery walk, we spent another hour doing rugged outdoor stuff—making snow angels, throwing snowballs at each other, and attempting to make a snowman. That got cut short when the wind picked up and snow started to fall hard.
Since Michaela couldn’t feel her fingers and toes, we retreated to the cabin. By the time we reached the door, snow had blanketed our footsteps.
“Thank you,” she says.
It doesn’t take me long to get a fire going.
“Nice and toasty,” Michaela says. “I still can’t get over the magnificent penthouse in Los Angeles or the mansion in Malibu, but this…” She opens her arms out. “The obscenely rich have a different definition of the word cabin . This is the lap of luxury.”
“It’s cozy.”
“Right.” She nods. “As cozy as the yacht, private plane, chauffeur, personal chef, cleaning lady… and the list goes on.”
“There’s nothing wrong with living well, when you’ve worked for it, kitten. And, don’t forget, you get to enjoy all of this coziness as well.”
She offers a dazzling smile. “I’ve said it before, the life of a billionaire’s wife is nice work if you can get it.”
We both laugh.
Six months into this marriage, and she’s still a fascination. She appreciates the life I offer, but she never takes it for granted. Thank God she hasn’t transformed into one of these obnoxious-stuck-up-entitled women who ride on their husband’s fortune.
She doesn’t have to work, but she shows up every day.
And, every morning as she strolls through the lobby on her way to the executive floor, she makes it a priority to greet guests and employees with a huge smile.
She says it’s something her mother instilled in her, something ingrained in her DNA. I respect that about her.
“It’s getting warm in here now.” She fans herself.
“Too warm?”
“Nah, I’ll remove some layers.”
She pulls the powder blue cashmere sweater over her head before removing her insulated pants.
There’s nothing provocative or overly sexual about the way she removes her clothes, but my cock stiffens.
She’s now dressed in a form fitting white camisole and black leggings.
After six months in LA, her creamy white skin is now sun kissed.
She’s a true Los Angelina. My eyes brush down the length of her sexy ass body.
One glance reveals she isn’t wearing a bra and I don’t see any panty lines.
I approve.
God, my desire for this woman is off the Richter scale.
No matter how many times I fuck her, it’s still not enough to satisfy the insatiable pit inside me.
She folds her clothes with care, walks back to the foyer, and drops them on the wooden bench before reemerging.
“We’re going to have a copious dinner at Dad’s cabin in a few hours with the whole family, but there’s always room for a treat,” I say. “Kahlua hot chocolate and homemade cookies?”
“Like I’d say no to that?”
“Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back.”
I head to the wall-mounted iPhone dock in the hallway that controls the multi-room system offering surround sound throughout the cabin.
I place my phone there and strut to the freezer.
I pull out an assortment of frozen cookie dough, place half a dozen balls on a cookie sheet, and then slide them into the oven.
I get to work on the hot chocolate. I’m no wizard in the kitchen, but Mom taught all her boys how to prepare kickass spiked hot cocoa.
Seventeen minutes later, I return to the living room, a large tray weighed down with sweet treats in hand.
My wife’s eyes are huge. “You’ve been hiding things from me, dear husband.”
“Not really. I needed the perfect setting.” I drop the tray on the coffee table. “Drinking hot cocoa in LA makes no sense. In Aspen, it’s a necessity on a wintery day like today.”
“You have a good point.”
I hand her an oversized mug.
Her eyes grow wide. “Thank you. I expected a splash of booze, but this is a work of art.”
I sit next to her on the sofa before grabbing the second mug.
“Marshmallows slathered in salted caramel and a drizzle of melted chocolate finished with a touch of the flame from a blow torch go a long way.”
She cradles the mug with both hands and takes a long sip.
“Mmm.” She closes her eyes and moans. “This is delicious.” She shoots me a side gaze. “You, Mr. New CEO, have some wicked skills.”
She’s impressed.
“Granted, you just discovered my talent for preparing kickass hot chocolate, but I was a CEO when you met me.”
She shakes her head. “You were an interim CEO,” she says. “Now, you run the show.”
“I do. And it’s a pretty fucking amazing feeling. I wouldn’t have been able to achieve my goal without my wife.”
“Glad I could help.” She lifts her mug.
I clink my mug with hers and wink.
She takes a small sip of her drink, careful not to burn her tongue. “Oh, you could get drunk on this.”
“By the time you finish your drink, you’ll be pretty mellow,” I say. “Two of those back to back, and you’ll be knocked out.”
“Noted.” She drops her mug on the coffee table and reaches for a cookie.
I do the same.
“These are as scrumptious as the ones from the Pompadour,” she says around a bite, pointing at her white chocolate and macadamia nut cookie. “Please tell me you didn’t prepare these.”
“I didn’t. I made a special request to the head pastry chef at the Pompadour.”
She’s addicted to them, but I won’t point that out.
“You’re a good man, Mr. CEO.”
It’s her new favorite word.
It also happens to be mine.
It’s official.
As of yesterday, six p.m., the board of directors named me CEO of Konig Imperial Holding.
What an amazing Christmas gift.
I didn’t count my chickens until all the votes were in. You never know. With Potter out of the picture, there was no opposition. The votes were unanimous. The other board members always felt I was the man for the job––not because of my last name, but because I’ve worked damn hard to earn the title.
I was elated and relieved. So were my father and my brothers.
Slate and I made peace a long time ago over the outburst that created a rift between us.
He even went as far as to apologize to Michaela.
Even with that, he took me aside right after I was appointed and apologized again for ever doubting I could pull it off and have the girl.