Chapter Twenty-five – Ivy
Coral Bell Cove’s public park smells like funnel cake and sunscreen and melted ice cream.
Like the perfect end-of-summer night wrapped in sticky sweetness and the hum of cicadas.
Music plays softly from the park’s speakers, some old country tune that makes you want to sway barefoot in the grass with someone you love.
Laughter floats from the kids racing between picnic tables, and the air is thick with heat, joy, and the faint twang of anticipation.
And nerves. God, I’m vibrating with them.
“You good?” Rowan’s voice rumbles beside me, warm and calm and so steady it makes my chest ache.
I nod, then immediately shake my head. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
He chuckles, his palm sliding low on my back, grounding me. “You’ve performed in front of thousands. You’ll be fine.”
“This is different.” I glance up at him. “They know me here. Or… they know you. Us. It’s not stage lights and backup dancers. It’s your mom handing out lemonade and Lila helping kids on the pony rides.”
“And that terrifies you more than a sold-out arena?”
“Terrifies me differently,” I mutter.
He tilts his head and brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. “You’ve already won them over. They’ve watched you collect eggs and sweep the barn and comfort kids when they scraped their knees. They’ve seen the real you.”
I smile, but it wobbles. “That’s the part I want to protect. And share. Which makes zero sense.”
Rowan’s thumb strokes over my lower back. “You don’t have to make sense. You just have to sing.”
“Rowan…”
“Ivy.” His gaze is steady, voice soft. “Just be you.”
And somehow, that makes me breathe easier. Being me doesn’t mean being Ivy Quinn tonight. It doesn’t mean the label or the pressure or the never-ending PR cycle. It means the girl who fell for a grumpy cowboy and started dreaming of something softer.
The makeshift stage is set up at the far end of the park, strung with lights that twinkle against the deepening dusk.
It’s not massive, but it’s charming—faded wood boards and weathered beams, the kind that feel like home.
The town set up benches and chairs, but most people are scattered on picnic blankets or leaning against the fence, waiting.
I spot Rowan’s mom refilling lemonade, Bailey organizing crafts for the younger kids, and Holt working the grill like it’s a high-stakes operation. Lila waves when she catches sight of me, and Hadley gives me a quick thumbs-up from the other side of the field. It’s… overwhelming in the best way.
Even Crew’s here, tossing a football with a group of kids, his baseball cap pulled low and a grin on his face. It’s a bye week for him. When he looks up and sees me watching, he winks, then subtly tilts his head toward Bailey.
I follow the motion just in time to see Bailey practically bolt behind the craft tent.
I snort. “Poor guy.”
Rowan glances at me. “He’s been trying to talk to her all summer. She’s faster than a jackrabbit.”
“Good for her,” I murmur, then glance at him. “Not that I don’t love Crew, but…”
Rowan’s lips twitch. “No need to explain.”
The emcee announces a short break before the final performance, and my stomach flutters like I’m sixteen again.
Rowan leans in close. “You’ve got this.”
“I wrote it for you,” I whisper.
“I know.” He kisses the side of my head. “And I’ve never been prouder.”
I walk toward the stage on legs that feel both too long and too shaky. The crowd quiets as I step into the warm glow of the string lights, and I take a deep breath, letting the guitar strap settle across my shoulder.
This song—this moment—it’s not about perfection. It’s not about impressing anyone. It’s about him.
I scan the crowd until our eyes lock. Rowan stands at the edge of the park with his arms crossed and a steady gaze on me like I’m the only thing in the world worth seeing.
I strum the first chord, part my lips, and sing. The melody floats out of me like it’s been waiting for this night, this moment, this man.
The first verse is soft, just voice and guitar—gentle enough to hush the park. The kids are quiet. Conversations fade. Fireflies blink along the hedges, and the town slips into stillness like it knows something important is happening.
I sing about summer nights and porch swings. About laughter that lingers and hands that feel like home. I sing about building something real—slow, steady, sacred.
And I sing about Rowan. About a man with rough hands and a soft heart. About a place where I learned how to breathe again. Where music returned like a tide I thought I’d lost.
The chorus spills out of me, low and aching:
“I don’t need the city skyline, Don’t need a stage with blinding lights. I need the way you say my name, Like I’m already enough tonight…”
I spot Rowan near the edge of the crowd, his eyes glossy, jaw tight. One of his hands is clenched into a fist against his chest, like he’s holding himself together with nothing but willpower. His mom slips an arm around his waist without a word. He doesn’t look away from me.
The second verse is bolder. Stronger. I let myself feel every lyric. Let myself love him through the music. Not just because he deserves it, but because I do, too.
“I came here running from something, Now I’m standing still for you. This small town wrote my ending, And my beginning too…”
By the time I hit the final note, the crowd is silent. Not out of disinterest. Out of reverence. Then someone claps. And another. And then the whole damn park erupts into cheers.
I can’t help the laugh that bursts from my chest as I step back from the mic, my cheeks flushed, hands trembling. But I don’t want to bask in this moment alone. I want him.
Rowan breaks through the crowd as people begin to rise, congratulating, whistling, shouting my name. He doesn't stop to acknowledge them. His eyes are on me like I’m gravity itself.
When he reaches the edge of the stage, I meet him halfway, guitar forgotten behind me. I practically leap down into his arms, and he catches me like he was born to.
“Jesus, Ivy,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “That song—”
“It was yours.” I bury my face in his neck. “It’ll always be yours.”
We’re standing in front of everyone, but it doesn’t matter. I kiss him anyway. Slow, sweet, and unhurried. A promise.
Rowan cups my cheek, and for a second, I think he’s going to say something teasing, something to cut through the heat in his eyes. But instead, he leans closer.
“Come with me,” he murmurs.
My brows lift. “Where?”
He laces our fingers together, tugging me past the stage lights, past the food stalls, games, and folding chairs. We wind through the trees toward the back edge of the park, toward the walking trail that loops behind the marsh.
When we reach a clearing strung with soft fairy lights—clearly another of his surprises—he stops.
No one else is in sight. Just the sounds of the celebration fading behind us and the faint ripple of water nearby.
Rowan turns toward me, his hands resting lightly on my waist. His eyes search mine with a look so intense it steals my breath.
“I didn’t want to do this in front of everyone,” he says.
My heart leaps. “Do what?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, simple ring. It’s not flashy—just a delicate gold band with the sparkle of an antique diamond, warm and real and so perfectly us.
“Evangeline Quinn,” he says, voice steady, and it’s the first time my real name sounds like a prayer instead of a curse, “you walked into my life like a damn wildfire. And I’ve been burning for you ever since.”
My breath catches.
“I don’t care about cameras or headlines or stage lights. I care about porch swings and early mornings and the way your hair smells when it’s still wet from the shower. I care about you—here, now, always.”
Tears sting my eyes.
“I can live in your world,” he says, “if you can live in mine.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You don’t even have to ask.”
But he does anyway.
“Marry me?”
I throw my arms around his neck, laughing and crying all at once. “Yes.”
He kisses me with everything he has, and when he finally slides the ring onto my finger, it glints in the fairy light like it’s always belonged there.
“Guess I’ll have to write another song,” I whisper against his mouth.
Rowan grins. “Make it a long one. I’m not going anywhere.”
By the time we return to the main park area, the sky has turned the deepest shade of navy—stars blinking to life overhead while the music and laughter carry on.
I still feel his kiss on my lips. The weight of the ring on my finger.
The hum of everything that just happened was vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat.
We haven’t said anything to anyone yet, and Rowan keeps glancing down at my hand like he’s double-checking it’s real.
“Your mom’s gonna know the second she sees us,” I murmur, elbowing him lightly as we approach the long string of picnic tables again. “You’re basically glowing.”
“I am not glowing,” he grumbles.
“You’re totally glowing,” I tease, brushing my hand along his back. “I bet Holt makes a joke before dessert.”
Rowan lets out a breath of amusement but doesn’t deny it.
The tables are lit with paper lanterns now, soft flickers of light bobbing gently from shepherd’s hooks staked into the grass. The whole thing feels like a scene out of a movie—rustic and charming and warm enough to thaw the part of me that used to live on defense.
Bailey spots us first. Her brows shoot up, then drop just as fast as she turns and pretends to be wildly interested in folding a napkin.
I notice. “She always this bad at pretending she’s not watching?”
“Worse,” Rowan says.
Right on cue, Crew’s headed toward the table with two sodas in hand. His eyes find Bailey immediately, and before he even opens his mouth, she pivots on her heel and beelines toward the dessert table like she’s been summoned by a cherry pie.
Rowan snorts. “That’s gotta be the fifth time tonight.”
“Seventh, actually,” I whisper. “I’ve been counting.”
Crew slows, defeated but not surprised, then drops into the seat beside Lila with a theatrical groan.
“Denied again?” she asks, not even trying to hide her grin.
“She treats me like I’m contagious.”
“You are. It’s called delusional confidence.”
“I call it stubbornness—a common Wright trait.”
I catch Rowan’s eye, and we both laugh. There’s something so easy about being back with his family—no expectations, no filtered conversations. Just this beautiful, chaotic crew of people who’ve made room for me in ways I never expected.
Hadley waves us over and immediately loops her arm through mine. “Okay, tell me everything. What was that song? You were glowing.”
Rowan snickers behind me, but I ignore him.
“I wrote it about the farm,” I lie—mostly. “And maybe a little about your brother.”
“A little?” Hadley replies, shooting Rowan a look. “He looked like he was about to cry.”
“I was not about to cry,” he mutters.
“Was too,” she and Lila say in unison.
Before he can argue, his mom walks up with a tray of drinks, her eyes falling to my left hand as she hands me a lemonade.
Her gaze sharpens, then softens.
“Oh,” she says, gentle and almost reverent.
I smile sheepishly. “We haven’t told anyone yet.”
She sets the tray down on the table, wipes her palms on her apron, and wraps me in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of me.
“You don’t have to tell anyone,” she murmurs into my hair. “You’ve already told each other.”
When she pulls back, her eyes are glassy, and Rowan’s are suspiciously shiny too.
“Mom,” he says, voice low.
“I know, baby. I’m just happy.” She presses a kiss to his cheek, then mine, and bustles off like nothing happened.
The rest of the night floats by in a blur of laughter and stories.
Bailey finally lets Crew hand her a plate of cobbler, but vanishes before he can do more than blink.
Holt challenges the kids to a watermelon-eating contest and ends up with juice in his scruffy beard.
Someone starts a round of karaoke on the stage, and I hear a warbly version of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” echoing through the trees.
Rowan doesn’t leave my side.
Every time someone pulls me into conversation, he’s there—hand brushing my back, fingers lacing through mine, and his mouth at my ear with whispered jokes that make me giggle like a teenager.
“You’re touching me a lot tonight,” I murmur as we drift away from the crowd again.
“Can’t help it,” he says, slipping his hand into my back pocket and tugging me close. “You’re mine now. Officially.”
“I was yours the second you showed me that cottage and gave me sweet tea in a Mason jar.”
He hums like that memory is sweeter than anything we’re drinking tonight.
“You were always mine,” he murmurs. “Even before I had the guts to believe it.”
The night stretches long and lazy, stars dancing above the park and the buzz of the party fading into a background hum. I know we’ll have to tell more people. Face more headlines. Maybe even deal with more of my past.
But tonight? Tonight, I’m just Ivy. Just his.
Back at the house, we settle on the swing. It’s quickly become one of my favorite places.
“I think we should tell people tomorrow,” I say eventually, curling my fingers around his. His mom and Bailey know, but everyone else seemed to be too oblivious to notice at the festival. Not that I could blame them, plus twirling the ring around so that the stone pressed against my palm helped.
“Tell them what?”
“That I’m engaged to a cowboy who doesn’t write flyers but makes the best damn sun tea I’ve ever had.”
He laughs, low and rough. “And who comes in his jeans on the porch swings?”
I gasp-laugh, swatting at him. “Stop!”
He catches my hand and kisses it.
“No one else gets to see this version of you,” he says. “The barefoot goddess who sings in barns and ruins me without trying.”
I kiss him again, long and deep. “Only you, Rowan. Always.”
The lights twinkle above us, the moon high, and somewhere in the distance, the first crackle of a firework breaks through the stillness—Coral Bell Cove’s unofficial end-of-summer tradition.
I lean back in his arms, and for the first time, I don’t flinch at the sound. I don’t run. I don’t brace.
Because I’ve already found home.
And he’s holding me in it.