Epilogue – Roe Monroe
Ayear later
The Five Hole creaks with the wind.
Thatcher hates it—says it’s the insulation, the old boards settling. I say it’s the place breathing. Stretching into itself. Remembering who it belongs to and what it wants to be.
I’m wiping down the bar, watching Thatcher argue with Riley over how to mount a new chalkboard menu without ruining the frame.
There are some guys coming tomorrow, a couple out of Colorado with a show about food and diners or bars on some cable network. They’re highlighting The Five Hole due to the unique hockey items the bar showcases, as well as the drink specials.
I guess we’re all trying to look our best.
Not that looking our best is difficult. Business has been fantastic and a highlight like that will just make it better.
Thatcher’s eye catches mine across the bar and I see his lips twitch, something warm and shiny in his gaze. My breath catches a bit too, and the ghost of his now-familiar touch makes me shudder.
That man will drive me wild until death do us part.
Or at least, that’s my plan.
Thatcher does worry more about teaching Jamie how to drive than about how high his national ranking is these days.
Jamie just keeps getting better, though, so that day is coming, and I just hope I’m the one to answer the door the first time an agent shows up.
“You’re good?” I ask as Thatcher draws near, Riley nowhere to be seen. Thatcher’s hands graze my hips just enough to make me give a happy sigh.
Gabe shrugs. “You ever think we’re too settled, Monroe?” I blink. “No. Do you think we’re too settled?” I ask.
The Knights played tonight, and the bar was packed for the game, of course, and my man Dom played like the star he can be. It made me happy. Proud. Certainly fucking content.
But Thatch gets weird ideas sometimes when the Knights play. As if I might miss that life.
As if.
“Like maybe there’s something else we should be doing other than running a bar and raising a kid?”
And there it is. No mention of his carpentry business, just the bar and Jamie. It’s a good thing Gabe has me watching out for him because his sense of self-preservation isn’t for shit.
“You want to join a curling league?” I tease. He rolls his eyes but smiles. That smile that says you know exactly what I meant, asshole. He looks up when I step into his space. “Are you asking if I’m content? Because if you are, I dare you to show any evidence that I’m not.”
I back up enough to hop onto the bar, swinging my legs like a teenager. I watch him finish wiping down the same spot twice while mentally encouraging him to come stand between my open thighs.
“Just checking.”
I hum. Thatcher could overthink breathing if he let himself.
I feel the smirk rise on my face. I happen to know something that will take his mind off it. After waiting weeks, this is finally the perfect time. The bar is closed and it’s just us here. I’m sure Riley’s gone home by now.
I reach into the cabinet under the till and pull out the small wooden box I stashed there earlier. His eyebrows rise.
“What’s that?”
“Open it.”
He does.
Inside is no surprise, a ring that’s been a long time coming. Simple. Warm-toned metal. No stone. Just solid, quiet permanence.
Like him.
He doesn’t speak for a beat. Then another.
I’d be worried if not for the fact that I know Gabe Thatcher, and I can see the emotions playing out on his face and the beat of his heart in his neck as he breathes through them.
“You serious?” he says finally, rubbing his chest. His voice is low and rough, full of emotion.
“Yeah. I’m not really the down-on-one-knee type. Most days that’s damn near impossible, but—“
Thatcher steps in between my legs like I’d been hoping for, hands gripping my thighs, and he kisses me.
Hard. Full. The kind that silences every stupid doubt I never said out loud. It’s possessive, and I lean into it.
This man can possess me till the end of time, and I intend to make damn sure he knows it.
“Damn.”
I breathe in short pants against his lips, because having Gabe Thatcher’s lips on mine will never be something that doesn’t spin my head.
“Marry me, Gabe,” I whisper against his lips. “Be my husband. Be forever with me.”
When he pulls back, he says, “Yes.” And punctuates it with another kiss. “I want a lifetime of you, Rory.”
His strong hands wrap around my thighs and hips, hauling me against him in a show of strength that makes me grind against him in response.
Gabe Thatcher is the hot hockey dad of my dreams, and he looks ready to take me apart here in our hockey-themed bar.
“Want to give me the ground rules?” I ask, breathless from his kissing and manhandling. He gives me a dark look full of promise at my teasing.
“Ground rules for marriage? As if you would even listen, Monroe.”
Later, we sit on the bar floor, backs against the counter, shoulders touching. The ring is still in the box from where we got . . . distracted . . . after the proposal.
I slip it onto his finger, listening to his breath catch as he admires it in the low light.
“We’ll have to get you one out of silicone too,” I muse. “For when you’re working.” I kiss each finger lightly. “I need you to keep all of these.”
I feel his breath catch and the low laugh he exhales against my neck. We’re both too spent for more than a heated kiss at my innuendo.
We share a smile and the kisses get lazy, both of us feeling the post-sex haze.
“I think maybe Riley wasn’t totally gone when you proposed,” Thatcher finally says, arching his brow at me to signal the gossip that implies.
“He’s already posted about it,” I tell him, holding up my phone after a few taps, confirming Thatcher was right. “Good thing Jamie already gave me his blessing.”
Thatcher buries his head in my neck with a half-hearted groan, and I laugh, holding him there.
Then I lean against him, and he leans back, wrapping us up together.
We stay like that for a long time.