Epilogue
Maya
Six months later.
I'm sitting in our usual corner booth at The Willow Tap, watching Lucas move behind the bar with that easy confidence I never get tired of looking at, when Harper slides in across from me with the kind of relieved expression that means another crisis at the newspaper has been successfully averted.
"Crisis celebration drinks," she announces, settling into the booth with a dramatic sigh. "Maya, you saved my entire career today."
"I just rerouted some network connections and updated your drivers," I protest, but I'm smiling because Harper getting dramatic about technology will never stop being funny. "Hardly career-saving."
"Tell that to my editor when he sees tomorrow's edition printed on time," she replies, already flagging down Jake for drinks.
June appears moments later, sliding in beside Harper with flour still dusting her apron and that satisfied glow she gets after a successful day of making people happy through baked goods.
"Sorry I'm late. Mrs. Walker's wedding cake order turned into a three-hour consultation about buttercream versus fondant. "
"The important decisions," I say solemnly, which makes June laugh.
"Exactly. Now, are we celebrating Harper's technological salvation or just drinking because it's Tuesday?"
"Both," Harper and I say simultaneously, which sends June into giggles.
Lucas appears at our table with a tray before any of us can answer Jake's questioning look from across the room. After six months of Tuesday night girls' nights, he's learned to anticipate our order perfectly.
"Three house wines, extra cheese for the nachos, and Harper gets the good stuff because Maya tells me you had a day," he says, setting down our drinks.
"You're the best, Lucas," Harper says gratefully, accepting her wine like it's a lifeline.
"You're welcome," he replies, pressing a quick kiss to the top of my head before heading back to the bar. "Try not to solve all the world's problems before closing time."
"No promises," I call after him, then turn back to my friends. "So, crisis averted, cake consultations complete. What's the gossip situation this week?"
"Well," June says, settling in with obvious relish, "Mrs. Henderson is convinced the new postal worker is having an affair with someone on Maple Street because he's been taking unusually long on that route."
"Classic Mrs. Henderson logic," I laugh. "What else?"
"The Peterson twins are arguing about whether to expand the hardware store, and apparently it's gotten so heated that Mrs. Peterson is threatening to lock them in the stockroom until they work it out," Harper adds.
"That actually might work," I muse. "Forced proximity has a surprisingly good success rate in this town."
Before either of my friends can respond to that loaded comment, the front door chimes and Nate Wilder walks in, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt after what must have been a long day making farm calls.
He looks tired but satisfied, and when he spots our table, his expression shifts to something more guarded.
I feel Harper tense beside me, and I remember exactly why. Two years of dating in college. Followed by a spectacular breakup involving him accepting a veterinary internship in California without telling her, and months of carefully avoiding each other since he moved back to town.
"Ladies," Nate says, approaching with careful politeness. "Hope I'm not interrupting."
"Not at all," June says immediately, though I notice Harper straightening in her seat like she's preparing for a fight.
"Actually, Harper, I'm glad I ran into you." Nate stops beside our table but doesn't sit, his attention focused entirely on Harper. "Your editor called me about that interview. Said you'd be handling it?"
Harper's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Right. The livestock sustainability piece."
"That's the one." There's something in his tone, professional courtesy layered over old irritation. "I can do Thursday afternoon if that works for your schedule."
"I'll have to check my calendar," Harper replies coolly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine. "I'll call your office tomorrow."
"Great." Nate nods curtly. "Looking forward to working with you, Harper."
"Likewise," Harper says, but her smile is pure professional politeness. "I'm sure it'll be... illuminating."
Nate's mouth quirks slightly at that, like he's holding back a comment. "I'm sure it will be. Ladies, enjoy your evening."
He heads to the bar without another word, and Harper immediately reaches for her wine glass again like she needs liquid courage.
"Well," June says after a moment, "that was sufficiently awkward."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Harper replies, but she's not fooling anyone.
"Harper," June says gently, "you two dated for two years in college. The whole town knows how that ended."
"That was a long time ago," Harper says stiffly.
"Was it?" June asks with gentle persistence. "Because you just looked like you wanted to either kiss him or throw your drink at him."
"Definitely the drink," Harper mutters, but there's a flush creeping up her neck that suggests June might be onto something.
"He's been back in town for what, four months?" I ask. "And you two haven't talked since then?"
"We may have talked." Harper's voice is defensive now. "Professional conversations. About... professional things."
"Right," June says with a knowing smile. "And I'm sure this impending interview will be completely professional too."
Harper glares at her. "It will be. I'm a professional. He's a professional. We're both very professional adults who can conduct a professional interview about livestock sustainability. Professionally."
"You said professional way too many times for one sentence," I point out, and Harper's glare shifts to me.
"I hate you both," she says, but there's no real heat in it. "Can we please change the subject?"
"Of course," June says innocently. "Maya, tell us more about this forced proximity theory of yours."
I laugh, grateful for the subject change even as I file away every detail of Harper and Nate's interaction for future reference.
***
The next morning, I wake up to the smell of bacon and the sound of Lucas singing off-key in our kitchen, which means either he's in an exceptionally good mood or he's trying to wake me up without actually waking me up.
Given that it's 7 AM on a Wednesday and I have four client calls scheduled before noon, I'm betting on the latter.
"You're a terrible singer," I call out, stretching luxuriously in our bed. The bed in the loft we've shared for six months now, in the life that still feels too good to be real sometimes.
"You're a terrible liar," he calls back, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Coffee's ready when you are, sunshine."
Sunshine. The nickname makes my heart do ridiculous fluttery things.
I pad to the kitchen in one of his old t-shirts and my favorite fuzzy socks, finding him at the stove wearing nothing but low-slung pajama pants and concentration as he flips pancakes with an intensity that should be reserved for brain surgery.
"Show off," I mutter, but I'm smiling as I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face against the warm skin of his back.
"Says the woman who built a client base of thirty-two businesses in six months," he replies, leaning back into my embrace. "How's the Henderson wedding website coming along?"
"Mrs. Henderson's granddaughter has requested seventeen different color schemes and wants the RSVP system to include dietary restrictions, plus-one specifications, and song requests for the DJ." I steal a piece of bacon from the plate beside the stove. "I've created a monster."
"A profitable monster," Lucas points out, turning in my arms to face me. His hair still mussed from sleep, and he's looking at me with an amused glint in his eyes. "Maya Bennett, tech consultant to the romantically inclined masses of Willowbridge."
"Don't forget the library's new catalog system, Dr. Matthews' patient portal, and the three restaurant websites I'm building," I add, rising on my toes to kiss him good morning. He tastes like coffee and contentment.
"How could I forget?" He grins, his hands sliding down to rest on my hips. "You've basically single-handedly dragged this town into the twenty-first century."
"It's not that dramatic," I protest, but I'm laughing because it kind of is. "Besides, you're the one who gave me the platform to do it. None of this would have happened if you hadn't let me set up shop in your bar."
"Our bar," he corrects, and something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully. "Maya, I need to talk to you about something."
My pulse skips because there's something in his expression that suggests this isn't going to be a casual conversation about breakfast or client meetings.
"Okay," I say carefully. "Talk away."
"I've been thinking," he says, reaching for what looks like real estate listings from inside a draw. "About us. About the future. About what we want our life to look like in five years."
I take the papers from him, scanning the listings for houses around Willowbridge. Real houses with yards and multiple bedrooms and space for the life we're building together.
"Lucas," I whisper, looking up at him with what feels like wonder. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I'm saying I want to build something permanent with you," he says, his voice steady despite the nervousness I can see in his eyes.
"Not just living together above the bar, but really building a life.
A home. Maybe even..." He pauses, swallowing hard.
"Maybe even a family someday, if that's something you want. "
The papers flutter to the counter as I launch myself into his arms, kissing him with all the joy and certainty and overwhelming love that's been building in my chest for months.
"Yes," I say against his lips. "Yes to all of it. The house, the future, the family. Yes to everything."
"Yeah?" He pulls back to look at me, and his smile is brighter than the morning sun.
"Yeah," I confirm, then grin. "Though I reserve the right to veto any house that doesn't have good internet infrastructure."
He laughs, spinning me around our kitchen while bacon sizzles forgotten on the stove. "Deal. But I get veto power over any house that doesn't have a proper workshop space."
"Deal," I agree, and when he sets me down and kisses me again, it tastes like belonging and heading toward forever all at once.
The kiss deepens, and suddenly the bacon sizzling on the stove, the client calls I have scheduled, the entire world outside our kitchen, none of it matters. All that matters is Lucas's hands sliding under my t-shirt, his mouth moving against mine with a hunger that makes my knees weak.
"We should turn off the stove," I murmur against his lips, but my hands are already working the drawstrings on his pajama pants.
"Should we?" he asks, backing me toward the living room.
We stumble past the coffee table, and I laugh against his lips as he spins us around the couch. "Someone's eager."
"Someone's been thinking about this since you said yes to everything," he replies, his hands pushing my t-shirt up and over my head.
He guides me down onto the couch, his body following mine. The soft cushions cradle us as his mouth finds mine again, desperate and demanding.
"Lucas," I gasp, my fingers threading through his hair as he trails kisses down my throat, over my collarbone, to the sensitive spot between my breasts that makes me arch against him.
"You're a goddess," he murmurs against my skin, his hands sliding down to grip my hips. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
"I look forward to you showing me," I challenge, tugging at his pajama pants until they slide down his hips.
He captures my mouth again, kissing me with desperation that matches my own as his hands hook into my panties and drag them down my legs. The cool air against my heated skin makes me shiver, but then Lucas is between my thighs, his body warm and solid and exactly where I need him.
"I love you," he says, his forehead pressed against mine as he positions himself at my entrance.
"I love you too," I breathe, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Now stop talking and—"
The words dissolve into a moan as he pushes into me, slow and deep and perfect. My head falls back against the couch cushions, and Lucas takes advantage of my exposed throat, his mouth working along the column of my neck while he moves inside me with a rhythm that has my entire body singing.
He groans against my ear, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency.
His thumb finds the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, circling with just the right pressure, and I cry out as pleasure crashes over me in waves. Lucas follows seconds later, my name on his lips as he buries his face in my neck and holds me like he never wants to let go.
We stay like that for long moments, breathing hard, our hearts racing in sync. Finally, Lucas pulls back to look at me, his eyes dark with satisfaction and love.
"Now that," he says with a grin that's pure male pride, "is how you celebrate house hunting."
I laugh, pulling him down for another kiss. "If that's how you react to real estate listings, I can't wait to see what happens when we actually find a house."
"Keep talking like that and we'll never make it out of this living room," he warns, but I can see him glancing toward the kitchen where the smell of slightly burned bacon is starting to drift our way.
"Would that be such a terrible thing?" I ask, running my hands over his chest.
"Not terrible at all," he agrees, pressing a kiss to my forehead before reluctantly getting up. "But your clients might have opinions about missed calls. And our breakfast is probably charcoal by now."
"My clients can wait," I say firmly, grinning. "I have more important things to do this morning."
"Such as?"
"Such as convincing my boyfriend that we should celebrate our future plans properly. In bed. For the next hour or two."
Lucas's answering smile is pure heat. "I love the way you think."
"Then stop thinking and start moving," I tell him, allowing him to switch off the stove before pulling him toward our bedroom. "We have a future to celebrate."
Six months ago, I was homeless and heartbroken, convinced I'd never find my place in the world. Now I'm dragging the love of my life back to bed to celebrate the house we're going to buy and the family we're going to build.
Sometimes the best things happen when you stop running and start building instead. And sometimes they happen when you're naked in your living room at 7 AM, planning forever with the man who makes every day feel like coming home.
THE END