Epilogue
May 20th, 4:30 p.m.
M ax leaned in the booth at The Hill, the cracked vinyl-covered cushion releasing a leathery crackle-squeak. Paloma stole a french fry from his plate, and something soft and unfurled in his chest at its casual intimacy. His gaze drifted to the copper-topped bar where they’d first officially met—where she’d perched on that corner stool in that red dress that had nearly stopped his heart, though he’d been too proud then to admit it. The setting sun painted her skin in shades of gold through the window beside them, and his pulse did its familiar dance—the one it had been practicing since she’d first turned business into pleasure with a stolen old-fashioned and talk of indoor gardens.
The same band playing the night they’d first met was on stage, their sultry bass filling the air. Strange how much had changed since that evening, yet some things remained the same. Her light sweater fell off one shoulder, so different from the red dress she’d worn like armor that first night. But instead of her sharp, impatient fingernails tapping the bar top, they traced lazy patterns on his palm. The ice in their drinks clinked with the gentle melody of contentment rather than the nervous rhythm of his restless stirring.
“I stil l can’t believe Lilith’s brother bought this place,” Paloma said, breaking into his thoughts. He followed her gaze to his friend chatting with a couple near the spot where they’d first shaken hands, pretending the touch didn’t spark something deeper than a business arrangement.
“I can. The last time we all hung out, it was like his old life was slowly killing his soul. You should’ve seen his face when he told me he’d made an offer. Like a kid on Christmas morning,” he replied, remembering how different things had been then: Tate trapped, Asher looking at Lilith, and Max stuck in a groove so deep he couldn't even see the edges. He glanced at the same dented and scuffed antique mirror behind the bar that had caught Paloma’s reflection that night, her eyes bright with possibility as she pitched him the project that would change everything.
“That’s great. He seems like a nice guy,” she replied.
“Uh, oh,” he teased. “I know you have a thing for nice guys.”
Paloma turned from the crowded restaurant that was slowly becoming a bar as more tables were cleared away for dancing. “Only one certain nice guy,” she said, her gaze falling to his few remaining fries. He pushed his plate closer, anticipating her next snack attack.
“Speaking of Christmas.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick envelope, and she withdrew the latest issue of Sterling’s magazine, Hearth & Haven. “Did you see? They reposted snippets of our interview.”
He took the glossy pages, studying their photo. They stood in the conservatory, sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling, highlighting the blooming climbing roses. “We look good together,” he said softly, meaning far more than the photograph.
“We are good together,” she replied, covering his hand with hers. The gold band on her finger caught the light—not an engagement ring, not yet. They were too busy to plan a wedding, but he wanted to show his commitment. His hands had trembled as he’d given it to her. And she’d cried happy tears when he’d explained what it meant to him—a promise to grow together, like the homes and hotels they created.
The past few months hadn’t been easy. Building a relationship while juggling projects in two states tested them. But where he’d once seen his impulsiveness as a flaw, it was a treasure to her. She loved his surprise visits. And when those weren’t possible, they made the most of video calls.
The last part of the Louisiana project would be smooth sailing, a mix of pleasure and business. He and his team would arrive in another week to work on the gardens and grounds of the two hotels.
The bass notes from the band shifted into something slower, more intimate. He recognized the opening notes—their song, the one that had been playing that first night at the bar when she’d pitched him the Thompson project. He’d been too caught up in his doubts back then to notice how the melody suited them. Now, watching her sway unconsciously to the rhythm, he had to have her in his arms.
“Dance with me?” he asked.
She nodded, stealing one more fry before he helped her from the booth. Her palm slid into his, their fingers intertwining. Walking to the small dance floor across the room, away from the tables, she melted against him, her head finding that perfect spot between his neck and shoulder. The soft notes of her perfume made his breath catch and his body warm.
He rested his hand on the curve of her spine, right above her waist, recalling how he’d once denied himself even the briefest touch, convinced he’d only ever be her second choice. Every subtle shift of her body aligned with his now, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. She curved against him like a vine finding its trellis—fitting, given how their love had grown from that conversation about indoor gardens.
“Remember the first time here when we truly talked?” she murmured against his neck, her breath warm.
“Mm-hmm .” He ran his hand up and down her fitted sweater, looking toward the bar where they’d sat. “You in that red dress, propositioning me.” His chest rumbled with quiet laughter. “If I’d known then what I know now . . .”
She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. “That I’m worth the trouble?”
“That you’re worth everything.” He brushed a kiss against her temple, breathing in the familiar scent that now meant home instead of temptation. “The distance, the complicated schedules, my mom’s constant hints about grandchildren . . .”
“Your mom does love to hint. Although, we should’ve known that would happen once I moved into your place.” Paloma laughed, and the sound filled his heart. “Last week, she sent me a Pinterest board full of nursery designs.”
He grinned. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mind, not really. It’s good ideas for our someday.”
He held her close. The way she’d said ‘our someday’ about kids, so casually certain of their future together, tightened his chest with joy.
The pressure of her hand increased against his shoulder, her body subtly pushing against the direction he was moving. Her steps quickened ahead of his own. He pulled back enough to see her face. “You’re leading again,” he murmured.
“Because you’re doing it wrong,” she whispered, and he heard her smile. Her fingers pressed into his palm, steering them toward the center of the floor. “The tempo’s faster.”
He chuckled, pulling her close. “I love you. Even when you’re impossible.”
“Especially then,” she corrected, rising on her toes and kissing him. “And I love you. Even when you’re being stubborn.”
“I wasn ’t being stubborn about the jasmine wall. I was right,” he said, guessing she was referring to their disagreement about the Baton Rouge garden.
“You were.” She settled back against his chest. “But I was right about where it should go.”
He held her closer. “That’s why we work so well together.”
Around them, the restaurant buzzed, laughter and excited voices ringing. Through the window, stars were beginning to appear in the deepening twilight. He closed his eyes and smiled. Everything he’d ever wanted was right here in his arms, and soon, this moment wouldn’t be just another evening out—it would be every evening of their lives.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. That simple touch still sent shivers down his spine, as it had since the first time she’d touched him.
He smiled against her temple, savoring how perfectly she fit in his arms. “I’m thinking about how good you look in red,” he murmured, his hand sliding over her crimson cashmere sweater until his palm rested right above her ass. “And how much better you’ll look out of it when we get home.”
She pressed closer, her lips brushing his ear, nearly making him forget they were in the middle of a crowded restaurant. “Let’s go home. I want your hands on me more than I want to dance.”
“Even more than my fries?” he joked.
“Yes.” She tilted her head. “But maybe we take them home. For later.”
“Done.” He handed her the keys to the motorcycle. “I’ll get a to-go box and meet you outside.”
She kissed him thoroughly before they returned to their table—him for the food, her for the helmets. But he didn’t head for the counter to pay. He enjoyed the view of her walking to the door, his body humming with desire and love.
The first time she’d walked into this bar, they’d both been ready to walk away. He’d held back, believing his impulsiveness would only lead to more mistakes, more disappointments. And she’d only wanted a night, too afraid letting him close would only end in heartbreak.
Now, she wasn’t walking away from him but toward their future. What had started with a proposition at a bar had, like their best designs, grown into something far more beautiful than either could have created alone.