Epilogue - Five Years Later
Graham
The workshop smells like cedar and sawdust and the faint trace of Maeve’s vanilla lotion.
I sand down the edge of a tabletop, brush off the fine dust, and run my hand along the grain. Smooth, clean, ready for polish. Another custom order from out of town. Lately, that’s been happening more and more. Folks drive hours to pick up one of my pieces.
I never planned for it to turn into a big business. Hell, I just liked making things. Then Maeve started helping me list projects online, take pictures in the right kind of light, and answer messages with that mix of charm and wit that makes people fall in love with her even through a screen.
Now it’s a full-blown company, Hawthorne Custom Made Furnishings.
I glance toward the open door where she’s sitting on the porch steps, laptop balanced on her knees, sunlight catching in her hair. She’s talking to someone on a video call, probably a client, but the way she smiles when she listens still makes something in my chest twist tight.
She looks up and catches me watching. “You’re staring again.”
“Can’t help it.”
She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You say that like it’s a medical condition.”
“Pretty sure it is.”
She shakes her head, but I can see the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Five years. That’s how long it’s been since the day she walked down that aisle in Pine Hollow, sunlight spilling through the trees, Dottie crying in the front row, Connor pretending not to tear up. Five years of quiet mornings, long nights, laughter, and love.
And not once have I woken up wishing for anything else.
After I finish sanding, I join her on the porch. She closes her laptop and leans against my shoulder, her legs stretched out in front of her.
“You know,” she says, “I just got another order from that boutique in Asheville.”
“Yeah?”
“They want three of your dining sets this time.”
I grunt softly. “Guess I’d better get to work.”
“I already told them we could have them ready by the end of next month.”
“We?” I ask.
She nudges my side. “Don’t act like I don’t help. I handle the customers, the marketing, the payments—”
“And the part where you make a mess trying to help me stain the legs?”
“Exactly.”
I laugh, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Couldn’t do it without you, sunshine.”
“You’re damn right.”
She smiles up at me, and I catch that look — the one that still knocks the air out of my lungs. The one that says she knows exactly how much I love her, and she loves me just as much back.
We head into town later that afternoon for Ford and Maisie’s little girl’s birthday party.
The whole Pine Hollow crew’s there — Annie and Cal wrangling their twins near the cider stand, Dottie holding court with a plate of cupcakes, Ford grilling while trying to keep his kids from sneaking marshmallows.
It’s chaos in the best possible way.
Maeve’s right in the middle of it, helping Maisie cut the cake, laughing with everyone, her cheeks pink from the sun. She fits in everywhere — like she was made for this town, this life, this moment.
Someone asks if we’re ever going to have kids, and Maeve smiles that soft, easy smile of hers. “We’ve got plenty of them running around already,” she says, nodding toward the pack of little ones shrieking by the bonfire.
They laugh, and the question drifts away like smoke.
Truth is, we talked about it years ago — whether we wanted children. The answer was no. Not because we couldn’t or didn’t love the idea, but because what we have feels full. We’ve built something solid, something that belongs only to us.
She’s enough for me. More than enough.
Later, after the sun dips behind the mountains, we drive home in comfortable silence. The headlights sweep over the familiar curve of the road, and when the cabin comes into view, Maeve sighs softly.
“Still feels good coming back here,” she says.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Always will.”
Inside, she kicks off her shoes and heads straight for the kitchen, grabbing two glasses of wine. She hands me one and leans back against the counter. The firelight paints her skin in warm, golden tones, and I swear my heart still stumbles every time I look at her.
“What’re you thinking about?” she asks.
“You,” I say honestly.
She grins. “Always me, huh?”
“Always.”
I set my glass down and move closer until she’s pinned between me and the counter. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull back.
“Still can’t get enough of you,” I murmur.
Her hand slides up my chest. “Good,” she whispers. “Because I don’t plan on giving you a chance to.”
Our mouths meet, slow and hungry. She tastes like wine and warmth and everything good in the world. Her fingers curl in my shirt; my hands find her hips. The years haven’t dulled it — if anything, the pull between us has only grown deeper, more sure.
When she finally breaks the kiss, her forehead rests against mine, her voice soft. “Five years, and you still look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you can’t believe I’m real.”
I smile. “Maybe I still can’t.”
She laughs quietly, wrapping her arms around my neck. “You’re stuck with me, Hawthorne.”
“Best decision I ever made.”
We kiss again, slower this time, the fire crackling behind us and the world shrinking down to this — her breath, her touch, the sound of her quiet laugh when I lift her onto the counter and she whispers my name.
The rest can wait. Tomorrow, I’ll sand another table, she’ll handle more orders, and life will keep rolling along, steady and good.
But tonight, it’s just us.
The man who built walls to keep the world out, and the woman who walked right through them.
The love we made from quiet mornings and sawdust and stubborn hearts.
The home we built with our own hands.
Maeve pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, a soft smile curving her lips. “You happy?”
“More than I ever thought I’d be.”
“Good,” she whispers. “Because so am I.”