Epilogue
One year later
Allie was standing in the center of her gallery space in Tribeca.
Her hands were on her hips, her hair twisted into a knot on top of her head.
A few strands had escaped and were matted against her temples.
There was dust on the knees of her jeans, a streak of white paint across her forearm, and yet, somehow, the place was still hours away from resembling the vision in her head.
A vision that had sparked like a bonfire the moment she and Barra toured the space two months ago.
Now it was a gallery, mostly ready for its first exhibition two days from now.
“Max, I said align the plinths to the grid line.”
Max, who was cradling a large plinth made from reclaimed oak, sighed dramatically.
Allie’s assistant, Dee, had called him in as a last-minute favor after coming down with strep.
Max had happily agreed to spend his afternoon helping Allie get the gallery ready.
She was paying him, of course, but she also knew he had saved her from a full opening-week disaster.
Their rhythm had clicked almost immediately, with Max slipping into the role of a younger brother and Allie trusting him far faster than she usually trusted anyone she’d only known for a day.
“Move it two more inches,” Allie said, ignoring his dramatics.
Max groaned with a smile, but did it anyway.
The plinths would hold the ceramic pieces by Saskia Bloom, each of which was obviously inspired by naked female bodies: hips, breasts, folds. Then, along the far wall, were paintings by Mara Vescovi and Julia Saint, also unapologetically nude.
Everything was intentional. Nothing was supposed to feel static.
This was New York City, for goodness’ sake.
Here she couldn’t get away with exhibiting dramatic oceanscapes by newbie artists.
Here, everything had to feel intimidating.
Which meant, of course, that Allie was currently obsessing over every tiny detail.
Allie bit her lip. “Okay, you were right. Take it back to where—”
But she didn’t finish her sentence because warm breath suddenly landed on the back of her neck. Every single hair on her body lifted at once. Allie shuddered, then leaned back without thinking twice. Barra’s arms folded around her.
“The space looks amazing,” she whispered into the side of Allie’s neck. Then she planted a delicious, wet kiss just behind Allie’s ear, a spot filled with so many nerve endings, Allie would’ve moaned out loud if it wasn’t for Max.
Allie angled her head back just a fraction, enough to catch half of Barra’s face. Her short hair suited her better. Honestly, Allie couldn’t imagine it any other way. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Barra said, nodding. Then she spun Allie around so she was facing her fully and rested her hands at her waist. Her fingers were like pleasant little anchors, keeping her from floating away into the mess of it all. “Why do you still seem stressed?”
“I just want it to be perfect,” Allie replied. “Tilly, Toph, Val, and June are coming, and I want them to think I’m more than just the woman who let Elodie pee on her leg.”
Barra’s laugh bounced off every exposed brick and glass pane and landed somewhere in Allie’s chest. It made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.
Which, honestly, had kind of become her baseline.
She felt perpetually warm and fuzzy these days.
Ever since Barra had proposed to her at that Final Sending, ever since Allie had somehow won the title of Ultimate Outlast Her.
Although she had to admit that winning Outlast Her had paled in comparison to the engagement.
Everything had changed for them the moment they’d made the decision to stop pretending that distance would be the thing that could keep them apart.
They were swallows now, wintering in LA, summering in New York, with the occasional flight in between when work or family and friends demanded it.
“And it will be perfect,” Barra said. “It’s already perfect.”
Allie moved out of Barra’s arms and walked around the room. The space was beginning to feel more like her space, just like her life was beginning to feel more like their life. Barra was right. Things were already perfect.
“Do you remember when you said that once the gallery opening is done, we’ll finally set a date for our wedding?” Barra said after Max had stepped back from one of the plinths and declared that he couldn’t work another second without an iced matcha.
“I do remember,” Allie said, rolling her eyes but still smiling at the same time.
Barra laughed. “You could sound more excited about it.”
“I am excited,” Allie said immediately. And she was. She truly was. It was just that the gallery had hijacked all her time and mental space while their wedding was buried underneath all the planning. She took a few steps back toward Barra. “I was thinking of a wedding in Big Sur...”
“Ah, I don’t think so,” Barra said instantly.
Allie laughed before she could stop herself. Barra looked so instantly horrified by the idea of Big Sur that Allie almost felt bad.
Almost.
“It was a beautiful wedding,” Allie said.
“It was,” Barra said. “Very elegant. Very romantic. Very... memorable.”
Allie’s smile tilted. “Memorable?”
Barra gave her a look. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but your face was thinking it loudly.”
Allie stepped closer, her fingers smoothing over the front of Barra’s shirt. “I was thinking about how irresistible you looked that night.”
Barra’s mouth twitched. “What else were you thinking?”
“How much I’d like a reenactment of that night.”
For one delicious second, Barra forgot to blink.
Behind them, Max made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a fake cough and an even faker attempt not to listen.
Allie slowly turned her head.
Max was standing beside the reclaimed oak plinth, holding a tape measure in one hand and his dignity in the other. “For the record,” he said, “I heard nothing. I am merely an underpaid theatre major trapped inside a very expensive lesbian art installation.”
Allie gave him a look.
He raised both hands. “Going. Happily going to get my tea. In fact, I have never wanted an iced matcha more in my life.”
Allie softened before he could flee. “Thank you, Max. Seriously. You saved me today.”
Max pressed a hand to his chest. “And I will be expecting free tickets to opening night and a mention during your speech.”
“Go home,” Allie said kindly. “Before I decide the plinths need to be moved yet again.”
Max’s expression collapsed into horror. “You are a very cruel woman.”
“I am a very talented curator,” Allie corrected.
“Same thing,” he said, grabbing his messenger bag from the floor. Then he pointed between the two of them. “Do not break anything valuable. And by valuable, I mean art. What you do to each other is none of my business.”
“Goodbye, Max,” Barra said.
He backed toward the door. “Goodbye, future Mrs. Chen-Jones. Goodbye, other future Mrs. Chen-Jones. I support whatever hyphenated bliss you two have planned.”
The front door chimed when he left, and for one blissful second, the gallery held its breath.
There was no foot traffic, no Max huffing and puffing, and no tape measure snapping back into place.
There was simply the quietness of the unfinished space, the smell of fresh paint and sawdust, and the late-afternoon light splaying across the concrete floor.
Allie turned back to Barra. Barra’s face had changed. Her smile turned wicked in a way Allie knew very well.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Allie asked, even though she knew exactly why.
“You sent him home.”
“I thanked him first.”
“Yes, you did. That was very kind and professional of you.”
“I am kind and professional.”
Barra’s gaze dropped to Allie’s mouth. “You’re also looking at me like you’re about to do something deeply unprofessional.”
Allie stepped closer and hooked her fingers lightly into the waistband of Barra’s jeans. “I was thinking I should thank you too.”
“For what?”
“For supporting me and for pretending not to panic every time I rearranged the hanging schedule.” Allie tugged her closer, just enough that Barra’s body met hers. “That couldn’t have been easy for you.”
“It wasn’t,” Barra said, her voice dropping. “You moved the same painting seven times.”
“Five.”
“Seven.”
Allie smiled, sliding her palms beneath the hem of Barra’s shirt. Her fingertips found warm skin, and Barra’s breath caught before she could hide it. “You survived it, though.”
“I survived Outlast Her twice. From here on out, I think I can survive anything.”
Allie’s heart squeezed so sharply it almost hurt. Then she kissed Barra, not gently, not carefully, but with a hunger that had been waiting beneath the whole day. Barra made a small sound against her mouth and pulled her in. Her hands settled at Allie’s waist like they belonged there.
They did belong there.
They had belonged there in the jungle. In the rain. On the beach. In every quiet morning after filming the TV show.
Allie backed her toward the rear of the gallery, past the plinths, past the wrapped canvases leaning against the wall, past a crate marked FRAGILE in thick black letters.
Barra broke the kiss just long enough to glance over her shoulder. “Where are we going?”
“The back room.”
“The back room,” Barra repeated, and her eyebrows lifted. “That sounds suspiciously like a gallery version of a bathroom stall at a wedding.”
Allie grinned. “Exactly.”
Barra’s laugh came out loud and delighted. “You’re recreating Big Sur?”
“Loosely. With better lighting. Fewer drunk wedding guests. No risk of anyone walking in on us.”
Allie pushed open the back-room door with her hip and drew Barra inside.
The room was narrow but warm, packed with the private mess of a gallery still becoming itself.
Bubble wrap spilled from one corner. A rolling cart held a tray of picture hooks, a level, white cotton gloves, and three abandoned coffee cups.
Against the far wall sat a huge wrapped painting, waiting to be hung.
Its protective paper was already peeled back from the upper half.
The painting was a portrait.
A woman stared out from the canvas with dark, unsmiling eyes. One eyebrow was lifted as if she had walked in on something scandalous and intended to judge it thoroughly.
Barra stopped dead.
Allie followed her gaze, then burst out laughing. “Oh my god.”
“No,” Barra said immediately.
“What?”
“No. Absolutely not.” She shook her head from side to side.
“It’s a painting.”
“It has eyes.”
“Most portraits do.”
“Judging eyes. That woman has opinions.” Barra pointed at it, offended all the way down to her soul. “Turn her around.”
Allie laughed harder. “You survived twenty-eight days in the wilderness, a double-elimination advantage, sex in the jungle with wild creatures waiting to pounce, Sutton’s personality, and me crying over plinth placement, but you draw the line at painted voyeurism?”
“Yes,” Barra said with great dignity. “I am not going to be watched going down on you by a woman in oils.”
“She’s acrylic.”
“I don’t care if she’s watercolor and supportive of the extra weight I’m carrying around my hips. Please turn her around.”
Allie crossed the room, still laughing, and carefully rotated the canvas until the painted woman faced the wall.
“There,” Allie said. “Privacy.”
Barra looked at the back of the canvas suspiciously. “I feel like she still knows what we are about to do.”
“She’s art. She’ll cope.”
Barra’s gaze came back to Allie, and the humor between them slipped into pure desire. The energy had been building all afternoon, beneath the stress, the grand opening nerves, the rearranged paintings, and every almost-touch they had swallowed instead of indulged in.
Allie stepped closer and placed one hand on Barra’s waist. The other slid up to the nape of her neck until her fingertips brushed the short hair there.
Barra’s eyes fluttered for half a second, and heat built between Allie’s legs.
She loved knowing that this woman could battle through hunger, rain, strategy, and heartbreak, yet still melt beneath the smallest touch.
“I really do want to thank you,” Allie said.
Barra swallowed. “You already did.”
“No,” Allie whispered, guiding her backward until Barra’s hips met the edge of the worktable. “Not properly.”
Barra’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. Her breath hitched, just barely.
And there it was.
The echo.
Big Sur without the bathroom stall. The same spark, but deeper now.
Back then, they had been two reckless women colliding in a place they were never supposed to be.
Now, they were inside the life they had chosen, surrounded by sawdust, canvas, fresh paint, and a turned-around portrait that was probably furious to be missing the steamiest part.
Barra smiled slowly.
“Allie Chen, are you about to ruin your own gallery?” she murmured.
Allie kissed the corner of her mouth. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m about to christen it.”
Barra laughed once, breathless and bright, before Allie kissed her again.
And this time, there was no jungle watching them. No cameras hiding behind leaves. No game waiting to punish them for wanting too much.
There was only the gallery, the locked door, the painting facing the wall, and sweet Barra Jones surrendering with a smile.
Book 4... Coming Soon