Epilogue Finn
Snow is falling out the kitchen window, the tree lights are twinkling, the house smells like cookies, and I’m flipping pancakes.
Georgia had claimed that she definitely failed her theory of magic final, which Cassidy proclaimed as a “pancake for dinner” event.
She then privately told me she thinks G is being overdramatic, but to let the kid eat pancakes anyway.
College is rough, and she made it through a semester. She deserves a reward.
Georgia is unpacking in her room upstairs, and Cassidy is puttering around, cleaning her things up from the kitchen table.
I’ve told her a million times that she should use the office we made her in the workshop to keep work separate from our home, and she does most of the time.
But it all migrates around with her, especially now that she’s taken on social media marketing for two more people in town.
Mrs. Granger is trying her hand at selling her soaps and perfumes to a wider market than just her neighbors, and Doug Petrokoff does actual glass blowing from his backyard workshop.
Cassidy does the social media marketing for all of us, then acts as the human face on post office runs or deliveries.
She gets her things tidied away, then comes over to me, careful not to touch me until I flip the last pancake onto the stack. I give her a kiss while I give her the plate, and when I pull away, she has a soft smile on her face. “I love you,” she murmurs.
She’s been doing that a lot lately. We both have. Saying it, and making sure the other hears it. It still makes me melt inside every time.
“Love you too, baby,” I promise her, watching her walk to the table. It’s a hell of a view.
“And thank you for doing this,” she says, now fiddling with the place settings.
I bite back a smile. Thanking me for it is a massive step up from arguing that I don’t have to do any of it, which is what she would have done even a few months ago.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her, sneaking up behind her to grab her hips and pull her back. “Anything to welcome Georgia home in style, hmm?”
She sighs, her head tilting to the side. “You saying my sister’s name while grinding on me is really counter-productive,” she points out.
My nose wrinkles. “Fair point.” And we better get used to it for the next few weeks. Georgia is home until the second week of January.
And my parents are always conspicuously around, too. We’re not getting any privacy for a while.
Well, not unless we make it for ourselves. “I could stick these in the oven on low,” I suggest. “Keep them warm while we sneak away? No one will be in the workshop.”
We’ve been married four months now, and I can confidently say that I’m as crazy for my wife as I was the first time I kissed her. Maybe more so, honestly. She has a way of doing that to me.
She rests a hand on mine, and I can see her turning it over in her brain. But before she can answer, the front door opens and footsteps pound down the stairs.
She moves out of my arms and turns to give me a wry smile. “Too late,” she murmurs. “Looks like we got a full house.”
I’m not even that put-out, honestly. Cassidy has a whole big family around her dinner table: my parents who support her unquestioningly, her sister who loves her to the moon and back, and me. Always me. I know this is what she wanted, what she barely let herself hope for.
So I kiss her silly, not caring that my parents and Georgia are walking into the room, and then I go to get the orange juice so we can have dinner with our family.