Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
Brooke
Six months after Hawaii, I stand on the porch of our ranch house, watching the Colorado sunset paint the mountains in shades of purple and gold. The September air carries a hint of the coming fall—crisp and clean in a way New York air never managed to be. Behind me, the house hums with activity as last-minute wedding preparations unfold—my mother directing caterers with military precision, Taylor arranging flowers with the same attention to detail she brings to everything, my father and James setting up chairs in the meadow where tomorrow, I'll become Mrs. McAllister. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be getting married on a ranch in Colorado, I'd have laughed in their face. Yet here I am, more at home than I've felt in years.
The sound of boots on wooden steps announces Dean's approach before his arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder as he joins me in admiring the view.
"Having second thoughts?" he asks, only half-teasing. Even now, after everything, there's a part of him that wonders if I might run.
I lean back into his solid warmth, covering his hands with mine where they rest on my stomach. "Not a single one," I assure him, turning my head to press a kiss to his jaw. "Unless you count my mother's insistence on those ridiculous Jordan almonds as favors."
His laugh rumbles through his chest against my back. "Your mother gets whatever she wants. She's the reason we're here, remember?"
"Don't remind her," I groan. "She's already insufferable about it."
It's true, though. If not for my mother's intervention that day in Hawaii, I might have let Dean walk away for good. Might never have found the courage to chase him to the airport, to declare my love in front of a terminal full of strangers, to accept the ring he'd carried for two years.
The ring that will be joined tomorrow by a simple gold band, officially making me Dean's wife.
The wedding planning has been surprisingly stress-free, perhaps because after facing the much harder challenge of merging our lives across two states, choosing flowers and cake flavors seemed trivial in comparison. We decided on a small ceremony here at the ranch, just family and close friends, followed by a reception under the stars in the meadow that will eventually become the site of our new home.
For now, we're living in Dean's existing ranch house—a cozy structure he built himself, with solid wooden beams and large windows that frame the mountain views. It's nothing like my sleek Manhattan apartment, but I've come to love its warmth, its character, the way it feels lived-in and real in a way no urban high-rise ever did for me.
"Your sister's looking for you," Dean murmurs, not making any move to release me. "Something about final dress fitting."
I sigh, knowing I can't put it off any longer. "Five more minutes," I negotiate, snuggling deeper into his embrace. "I just want to watch the sunset with you."
He presses a kiss to my temple, content to stand with me in comfortable silence as the sky transitions from vivid oranges and pinks to deeper purples and blues. These quiet moments have become my favorite part of ranch life—the permission to simply be, to breathe, to exist without the constant pressure to achieve or advance that defined my New York existence.
Not that I've abandoned my career. The compromise we eventually worked out involves me spending one week each month in New York, maintaining face-time with clients and my team, while working remotely from Colorado the rest of the time. My company was surprisingly open to the arrangement once I proved I could be equally effective from a distance. In fact, my boss admitted that my work has improved since the change—more creative, more innovative, less bound by conventional thinking.
"There you are!" Taylor's voice breaks our peaceful moment as she appears in the doorway. "Brooke, we need you for the final fitting. The seamstress is waiting."
I turn in Dean's arms, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before reluctantly pulling away. "Duty calls."
"Go," he says with a smile. "I'll finish up with your dad."
As I follow Taylor back into the house, I'm struck once again by how right this feels—the blending of my past and present, the merging of the life I built in New York with the one I'm creating here with Dean. My parents and sister move through Dean's home with easy familiarity, having visited several times in the months since Hawaii. The initial awkwardness of explaining our "relationship timeline" (a carefully edited version that omits the whole fake-relationship charade) has given way to a genuine integration of our families.
The rest of the evening passes in a whirlwind of last-minute wedding details. The seamstress makes final adjustments to my dress—a simple but elegant design that suits the outdoor setting. My mother and Taylor debate the merits of various hairstyles while I half-listen, watching through the window as Dean and my father share beers on the porch, their laughter carrying on the evening breeze.
Later, after the last of the vendors has left and my family has retired to the guest rooms Dean recently added to accommodate them, we finally have a moment alone. I find him in our bedroom, already changed for bed, sitting against the headboard with papers spread around him—ranch accounts that need attention even on the eve of our wedding.
"Should the bride really be in the groom's room the night before the wedding?" he teases as I slip off my robe and slide under the covers beside him.
"Pretty sure that ship has sailed," I return dryly, gesturing to the very obvious evidence that we've been sharing a bed for months now. "Besides, I'm not spending our last unwed night apart because of some outdated superstition."
Dean gathers his papers, setting them on the nightstand before turning to pull me into his arms. "Have I mentioned lately how much I love your practical side?"
"You're mocking me."
"Never," he protests, but his eyes crinkle with amusement. "I genuinely appreciate your practical approach to life. Without it, we'd never have had that fake relationship that turned into a real engagement."
I groan, burying my face in his chest. "Are you ever going to let me live that down?"
"Nope." He drops a kiss on the top of my head. "It's going to be part of my vows tomorrow. 'I, Dean, take you, Brooke, to be my lawfully wedded wife, even though you once asked me to pretend to be your boyfriend...'"
I pinch his side, making him yelp. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me, Callahan." His grin is unrepentant. "Your mother would love it. Another chance to say 'I told you so.'"
He's not wrong. My mother has become insufferably smug about her role in our reconciliation, reminding me at every opportunity that she knew Dean was "the one" from the first time she met him.
"Speaking of my mother," I say, changing the subject, "she wants to know if we're planning to hyphenate our names. Apparently, she needs to know for the wedding program."
Dean's expression grows more serious. "That's your call. I know your career is established under Callahan."
It's a small thing, but it represents the countless ways Dean has worked to meet me halfway in building our life together. He never assumes, never dictates, always recognizes the importance of my independence and identity.
"I'm thinking Brooke Callahan McAllister, professionally and legally," I tell him, having given it considerable thought. "I want your name, but I'm not ready to completely let go of mine."
His smile is soft, understanding. "I like the sound of that."
"Besides," I add, trailing my fingers across his chest, "this way when people at work ask if I'm related to 'that rancher McAllister' everyone's talking about, I can say yes."
Dean laughs, the sound rumbling pleasantly beneath my ear. "Am I being talked about in New York marketing circles?"
"You would be if they knew what you could do with your hands," I tease, catching his larger hand in mine and bringing it to my lips. "But that's information I'm keeping to myself."
His eyes darken, desire replacing amusement. "Is that right?"
"Mmm-hmm." I press a kiss to his palm, then each fingertip, watching as his breath catches. "Some things should remain private."
With a swift movement that still manages to take me by surprise, Dean rolls us so I'm pinned beneath him, his weight a delicious pressure. "Like what I'm about to do to you?" he murmurs, lips hovering just above mine.
"Exactly like that," I agree, arms winding around his neck to draw him closer.
Later, as we lie tangled together in the aftermath, my head on his chest and his fingers tracing idle patterns along my spine, I'm struck by a sense of completion I never thought possible. The restlessness that drove me from Colorado to New York, the constant seeking for something more, something different—it's gone, replaced by a certainty that I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.
"It was never fake, was it?" I ask quietly, voicing a thought that's been growing in my mind since Hawaii.
“Not for one damn second,” Dean affirms before he cups my cheek, thumb brushing gently over my skin. "It was just two stubborn people trying to pretend they weren't still in love."
"Well, when you put it that way, we sound like idiots," I laugh, turning my face to press a kiss to his palm.
"The biggest," he agrees with a grin. "But at least we figured it out eventually."
I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear. Outside, the Colorado night is quiet save for the occasional call of an owl or rustle of wind through the aspens. Tomorrow, this peaceful space will be filled with people celebrating our union. But tonight, it's just us—Dean and Brooke, no longer pretending, no longer running, no longer afraid of what loving each other might mean.
"I almost missed this," I murmur, sleep beginning to tug at the edges of my consciousness. "Almost let fear rob me of the best thing in my life."
Dean's arms tighten around me, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Not possible," he says with quiet certainty. "Some things are meant to be, Brooke. Some people find their way back to each other no matter what."
As I drift toward sleep, safe in the arms of the man I'll marry tomorrow, I know he's right. What we have was never fake. It was never temporary or convenient or just for show. It was always real, always true, always waiting for us to be brave enough to claim it.
"Not for one damn second," I whisper, echoing his words with a smile as sleep claims me at last.