Epilogue #2
For a second, everything stills. The crowd’s laughter turns to a muffled hum, the heaters fade, even the drizzle seems to pause. My throat tightens; my answer rises before I can form it.
“Yes,” I breathe. “A thousand times, yes.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years, then presses his lips to mine—soft at first, then deeper, steadier, until the rest of the world falls away.
When we break apart, he reaches into his coat pocket. A small velvet box appears in his hand. The ring inside catches the light—modest, perfect, shining like a new start.
“It’s not very big,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “But I promise I’ll make it bigger one day.”
Tears blur the lights again. “I never wanted big,” I tell him. “I only wanted you.”
He slides the ring onto my finger, and warmth floods my chest, the kind that doesn’t burn—it roots. The steadiness I use to run this place meets the steadiness he offers me. Two hands on the same wheel.
The crowd hasn’t noticed us yet. For a few precious seconds, it’s only the two of us under the mist and the glow, our laughter quiet and sure.
Then, from behind us, Ryker’s voice explodes through the microphone.
“Hey! Pretty sure my sister just got engaged!”
The words echo through the courtyard like a spark catching dry straw.
For one heartbeat, there’s silence. Then chaos.
Cheers erupt from every direction—shouts, laughter, champagne corks popping like fireworks.
Someone near the heaters starts clapping and soon everyone joins in.
Ryker’s grin is wide and ridiculous, and Beckett’s already pushing through the crowd to slap Declan on the back hard enough to make him wince.
Trinity throws her arms around me, still crying from Dad’s announcement and now crying harder. “Finally,” she sobs into my hair. “You two were killing me.”
I laugh and hug her back, dizzy with joy. My hands won’t stop trembling, the ring catching flashes of gold light as I move. Declan’s arm never leaves my waist—his hand anchored at my hip like he’s afraid I’ll drift away.
Mom and Dad reach us next. Mom kisses both my cheeks, whispering something about fate and faith and the way the right things always find their way back. Dad just looks at me for a long moment before pulling me into a hug that smells like cedar and wine barrels.
“Looks like I’m giving up the vineyard and a daughter all in one night,” he says, his voice rough but proud.
“You’re not losing either,” I tell him. “You’re just… expanding the family.”
He chuckles, then leans to shake Declan’s hand. “You take care of her.”
“Always,” Declan says, and it’s not a promise—it’s a vow.
Ryker’s still at the microphone, trying to get everyone’s attention again. “All right, Paradise Hill!” he shouts. “If anyone has a problem with this engagement, too bad—she’s got brothers who lift weights for fun!”
The crowd roars. Trinity wipes her eyes and snatches the microphone from him. “And a sister who’s ready to plan a wedding!”
More cheers. Beckett groans good-naturedly. Declan laughs into my hair, shaking his head. “Guess we’re not keeping this quiet.”
“Not in this town,” I say, smiling through the tears still streaking my cheeks.
Julio appears with a tray of champagne, handing out glasses as people crowd closer. Someone starts chanting, “Speech, speech!” but Ryker wisely waves them off. “No speeches. We’re saving that for the wedding. Right now, we’re counting down!”
The lights dim slightly as the band switches to something soft and anticipatory. The crowd begins to sway together, a tide of voices and faces and laughter.
Declan leans close. “You ready?”
“For what?” I tease.
“For the rest of our lives.”
I can barely breathe. “Always.”
Someone calls out, “Ten!” and the crowd joins in.
“Ten!”
“Nine!”
I look around—at my family, my friends, the staff who stayed long after their shifts ended just to celebrate.
Mom’s leaning against Dad, her head on his shoulder.
Beckett has his arm draped over Sadie. Greyson spins Trinity into a laughing half-dip.
At the far table, Ryker and Ginny guard a crate of fireworks like they’re state secrets.
“Eight!”
Declan’s fingers lace with mine.
“Seven!”
Hope thickens in the air, bright as the lights strung over wet stone.
“Six!”
He turns to me, his eyes reflecting the lights. “You know,” he murmurs, “this feels different.”
“How?”
“Because it’s real now.”
“Because it’s forever,” I whisper.
“Five!”
He smiles, the corners of his mouth curving like he’s memorizing this moment.
“Four!”
“Three!”
The heat lamps flicker. The mist thickens into a fine, silvery drizzle that catches on his hair and my lashes. He doesn’t look away.
“Two!”
He cups my face in both hands, the noise around us collapsing into silence. “Happy New Year, Tarryn Paradise,” he says.
“One.”
The crowd explodes. Fireworks crackle over the lake. Champagne spills, people laugh and cheer and kiss whoever’s closest.
Declan’s mouth finds mine, and everything else disappears. The kiss is deep and certain, the kind that steals the air and gives it back as something brighter. My hands slide into his hair; his thumb traces the ring on my finger as if to remind us both that this is real.
When we finally break apart, my paper crown has slipped sideways. He adjusts it gently, grinning. “There. Perfect.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling out of me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m ridiculously in love with you,” he corrects, and kisses me again.
The band strikes up another song, a slow one, and he doesn’t ask this time—just pulls me close. We sway under the lights, the courtyard glowing, the mist soft as breath around us.
The vineyard stretches beyond, dark and still, waiting for the year to turn it green again. I lean into him, resting my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath.
“Can you hear that?” I whisper.
He tilts his head. “What?”
“Everything starting over.”
He smiles against my hair. “Sounds like music to me.”
For a moment, it feels like the whole world is ours—just this vineyard, this night, this heartbeat. The people we love close enough to reach, the future close enough to taste.
And somewhere out there, beyond the lights, I can almost feel the shadow of the man who tried to burn it all down. Zach may be out there—watching, waiting. But not tonight.
He won’t get away with what he did. Not in this new year. Not with all these lights. Not with all this love.
Tomorrow, we tighten the perimeter. Tonight, we dance.
Declan’s arms tighten around me, and I close my eyes as the fireworks bloom over the vineyard—gold, silver, and the deep red of new beginnings.
Spring keeps its promises.
Forever starts here.
Thank you for reading Tarryn’s story. She wasn’t part of my original plan, but the requests for her story were loud.
If you want to read about Declan and Tarryn’s trip to the International Wine and Spirits Competition, you can get that here.
Next up is Kingston’s story—buckle up. Here’s an unedited tease (which means it’s bound to change once my editor gets a hold of it ??).
Elise
My dad’s voice booms, crooning off-key about whiskey and heartbreak over the noise of the shower.
I drag a pillow over my head. So much for sleeping in on a Saturday.
His voice carries down the hallway, echoing through the thin walls of my childhood bedroom.
It’s endearing in a way, but mostly it’s a reminder that I’m twenty-eight years old and back to living at home.
Thanks to the fire, the cottage I shared with my best friend is gone.
I never say it out loud, but losing that place feels like losing the only corner of the world that belonged to me. Now everything feels borrowed—not exactly the glamorous life I imagined.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling fan, the blades unmoving because this time of year the air doesn’t need circulating; it needs heating.
The room still smells faintly of sandalwood and old paperbacks, the same way it did during university when I crammed for chem finals while home on weekends and taped tasting charts over my dresser mirror.
The floorboard by the closet still squeaks.
The window still fogs at the bottom right corner if you breathe on it.
Time is paused here, waiting for me to catch up.
Down the hall, the shower cuts off and the pipes clank. A minute later, Dad’s boots thump across the kitchen.
I can practically map his morning by sound—the kettle on, the two taps on the counter he does habitually with his ring, the rattle of the sugar tin even though he drinks it black, and finally the scrape of a chair as he sits to work a crossword with a pencil that’s always sharpened to a ruthless point.
He’ll leave a thermos by the door for me without saying anything, like always. We’re a symphony of routines. There’s comfort in it, but also a weight. He trusts me to slide into the melody someday, but what if I can’t carry the tune?
I should be out on my own. My own place. My own rules.
Instead, I’m stuck in the house I grew up in, on Paradise Hill.
And every time I slip through the door after nine p.m., Dad looks up from whatever he’s doing like he’s been timing me.
Not that I have much of a social life to keep track of, but still.
It’s a real crimp in my dating life. Nothing says undateable like “come back to my place, but my dad might be watching TV in the next room.”
I laugh it off with friends, but it stings. Everyone else is moving forward. I’m still proving I belong somewhere.
I’m not a kid anymore, but it feels like I’ve stepped backward. One million loser points for me.