Epilogue
PIPER
“Yep, that’s it. Perfect,” I say as Brody adjusts his stance. “Are you okay holding that pose for the next twenty minutes or so?”
“Sure, no problem. What’s my motivation again?”
“Champion of the sword, master of magic, king of all he surveys. You’re gazing down at the battlefield of Ashmyre after your victory over the Skarthven, knowing you’ve vanquished your enemies, and no one dares challenge you to the crown.”
“So, just a normal day at the office, then?”
I grin. “And you’re also the hottest elf lord around.”
“Even dressed like this and splattered in fake blood?”
“Especially like that.”
He gives me a smoldering look that promises even more earth-shattering sex tonight when we get back to our hotel, then adopts the stance I’m after.
We’re perched on one of the massive limestone boulders along the slopes of Castle Hill in Arthur’s Pass National Park, at the end of a long day of filming. Most of the crew has already headed back to Christchurch, but Brody and I stayed behind so I could sketch him in this incredible landscape.
Massive boulders, some larger than buildings, are scattered across the rolling green hills, as if tossed carelessly by the gods.
From our vantage point, we have a full 360-degree view of the surrounding mountains.
It’s an epic setting, featured everywhere from The Chronicles of Narnia to The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit.
When we got to New Zealand four months ago, the production of The Chronicles of the Sword and the Flame gave me a folding chair, a table, and a small portable easel to use on set so I can either draw by hand or on a large tablet.
Each morning, I pinch myself that this is my life now, and with every bit of positive feedback I receive, my confidence grows.
My pencil moves fast over the paper, sketching out Brody in full costume, hair, and makeup.
My inner nerd is officially out of the box and I’m leaning into every “Brody as a warrior elf” fantasy I’ve ever had.
Luckily, he thinks it’s cute, and the hair and makeup team doesn’t ask too many questions when he leaves the set still wearing his pointy ears …
Right now, I wonder if he’s ever been hotter.
He’s dressed for battle in an outfit of supple leather and hardened metal plating adorned with intricate filigree.
His shoulders are capped with elaborate pauldrons shaped like the wings of a bird, and his arms are protected by articulated gauntlets, etched with an alloy pattern of vines and leaves.
He’s wearing leather leggings and boots, his gold-and-silver helm lying on the ground, and his bloodied sword still in hand. His hair is longer than usual, and fake blood and dirt streak his face.
It takes all my self-control not to let go of my pencil and jump him.
It’s golden hour, and the sun is setting in the west, casting Brody in an ethereal glow and glinting off the metal of his costume. I quickly take a few photos for future reference, then keep drawing, capturing his energy and power at this pivotal moment in the story.
I’m so in the zone, I don’t notice time passing until I come to a natural stop and take a cleansing breath.
“Can I see?” he asks.
I nod, suddenly bone-tired, and glance at my watch. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize it had been so long.”
“It’s all good. I was enjoying the view.”
He lets out a long whistle as he gazes at my drawing. “Holy shit, Piper. That’s incredible!”
My chest puffs with pride. “I’ll make more tweaks when we’re back, but I’m so pleased with how it’s turned out. It makes such a difference doing it out here.”
I gaze at the landscape around us, the very one I imagined last Christmas when Martha asked me to think of what I wanted more than anything in the world, then blink, reminding myself I’m really here.
Standing to stretch my limbs, I face Brody and smile, but then falter. There’s something in his eyes, a hesitancy or worry. I’m so finely attuned to him that I know something’s up, and it doesn’t look good.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You okay?”
He’s gazing at me intently, his expression so serious that my heart flutters.
“Brody?”
He drops to one knee.
“Piper. I love you, and I’ve always loved you.”
He takes my hands in his. “For me, it’s always been you, and it always will be you. I know it may seem sudden, but this has been on my mind for over a decade. When you’re ready, and if you’re ever ready, will you marry me?”
My brain stops normal function to throw a party to which my vocal cords have not been invited.
“Shit, I almost forgot,” he mutters, his hands shaking as he reaches into an inside pocket of his costume and pulls out a ring, holding it out to me.
“Is that …?” I croak.
“It’s a copy, but made of gold and platinum, and set with real diamonds and rubies.”
I stare at the ring of the Queen of Draventhorne, based on a picture I’d drawn for the production when I arrived on set in January.
“It’s your design, so I hoped you’d love it,” Brody continues. “And in this universe, you’re my queen. You’re my other half, my partner in life, and my one true love.”
My mouth is still in shock, refusing to articulate my thoughts, so I take the ring from him and slip it onto the fourth finger of my left hand.
The gems catch the light of the setting sun, making the ring sparkle and glow on my trembling finger like it’s alive.
“Is that a ‘yes,’ then?” Brody asks.
I nod faster than a bobblehead on a bumpy road and drag him to his feet.
He gives me a relieved smile. “Are you sure?”
“Y-yes!” I finally manage. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”
Then I throw my arms around his neck and hold him so tight I can’t breathe.
A distant wolf-whistle breaks us apart, and I turn to see a few crew members down in the valley clapping and cheering.
“Did they know?”
He smiles. “I don’t think so, but the whole ‘going down on one knee at sunset on top of a rock in a national park’ might have given the game away.”
I laugh, happiness making me lighter than air. “I can’t wait to marry you. I’ve been doodling ‘Piper King’ in my sketchbooks since I was a teenager, so I’m finally going to make it official.”
“Fall wedding in Hideaway, then?”
“Yes! Mom’s gonna freak out. I need to call her.”
“At one a.m.?”
I pull a face. “She won’t mind being woken up with that news, but then she won’t be able to get back to sleep, so we’d better wait.”
“And in the meantime, I’m gonna take you to bed and show you just how much I love you. And you’re only allowed to wear one thing: that ring.”
I sigh. “Sounds perfect.”
He rubs the end of his nose against mine. “Just like you.”
Then he kisses me, and I lose myself in him and this perfect moment. Brody’s my first love, my greatest love, and the man I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life loving.
Ready for more holiday fun in Hideaway Harbor? Next up …
The Holiday Whoopie by Sara L. Hudson
Jack Lourd didn’t plan to stay in Hideaway Harbor—or fall for Audrey Nouel, the woman in cranberry Crocs who bakes like a dream and glares like a sport.
But between mistletoe mishaps and pastry-fueled chaos, he starts to wonder if he’s ready to make whoopie…pies.
The Holiday Whoopie is a grump vs. grump holiday romcom featuring a jaded Hollywood lawyer and a small-town baker with zero patience and a menu full of suggestive desserts.
Read The Holiday Whoopie now!
Christmas at Hideaway Harbor series
· The Holiday Hate-Off by Angela Casella
· The Holiday Fakers by Evie Alexander
· The Holiday Whoopie by Sara L. Hudson
· The Holiday Post by L.B. Dunbar
· The Holiday Clause by Lydia Michaels
· The Holiday Grump by Enni Amanda
All books are interconnected standalones and can be read in any order.
Check out the first chapter of The Holiday Whoopie below!
Jack
I’m freezing my balls off for whoopie.
I—a steadfast southern Californian—am burrowing into my newly purchased Tom Ford cashmere scarf as the cold from the cobblestone sidewalk seeps into my leather Cole Haan loafers and my testicles stage a full retreat.
And all because of a Freudian-named pastry sold in an innuendo-laden bakery called Making Whoopie.
“Isn’t this fantastic?” Amanda Willis, actress, celebrity, and the reason I’m standing outside a bakery in a fishing village at the ass-end of Maine, clasps her mittened hands together and inhales like the air itself is cinnamon-sugar flavored.
I scan the scene—Main Street, Hideaway Harbor. No palm trees. No women in bikinis. Just a ridiculous number of Fraser firs and townspeople wearing enough buffalo plaid to start a lumberjack militia. “‘Fantastic’ is not the word that comes to mind.”
Amanda’s been riding a high since we crested the hill and rolled into town this morning.
We flew a red-eye from LA to Bangor, rented a car, drove through a postcard, and landed in a town that looks like a Hallmark movie exploded only to spend what was supposed to be a scenic one-hour drive from Bangor white-knuckling the steering wheel, dodging snowbanks while the GPS glitched—all as Amanda waxed poetic about the storybook scenery and holiday charm.
Stamping my feet, I knock snow off my shoes. “What even is a whoopie pie?”
Amanda hugs her coat tighter. “Two soft cookie-sized cakes—chocolate, pumpkin, red velvet—you name it—sandwiched around a fluffy cream filling. They’re Maine’s state dessert.”
I arch a brow, not having realized states had their own official desserts. “And you think that’s worth frostbite?”
She tips her head, eyes glittering. “Well, it’s also a long-standing euphemism for sex. Making whoopie. So technically, we’re freezing for dessert and innuendo.”
The cold catches my exhale, turning my exaggerated sigh into one giant puff of smoke. “Figures you’d drag me across the country for pastry foreplay.”
Amanda just laughs. I glower.
It’s during times like this that I remember the psych survey I took for extra credit in college—the one that declared I had “high responsibility” as my top personality strengths.