Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
Liam
The hotel room stinks of the ghost of someone else’s cologne. I drop my keycard on the desk, loosen the knot of my tie, and stare out the expansive window at a flat, beige skyline that couldn’t be more different from the lake.
But the numbers are good. Great, actually.
The Phoenix store registered a 22 percent increase in customer lifetime value.
Flagstaff hit nineteen. The Sedona location—the one my father called a “vanity project” six months ago—is outperforming every legacy-format superstore in the Southwest. Staff retention is up.
Workshop attendance is through the roof.
And the custom gear-fitting stations are booked solid through the end of the month.
I only need the final report to present to my father.
Peyton and her team should have it ready soon.
It will be airtight and data-driven, and it’ll force my dad to shut his mouth and listen.
She texted me an hour ago that the draft was nearly done.
By the time I’m home tomorrow, it’ll be waiting in my inbox.
Home. The word has a different meaning now. It’s warmer. Fuller. A place I’m being pulled toward instead of retreating to.
I pull the tie off, draping it over the back of the desk chair, and shrug out of my suit. In the bathroom, I stand in my boxer briefs in front of the mirror, rolling my neck, cataloging the ache between my shoulder blades from a day of handshakes and store tours.
I take a quick shower before heading out again for dinner with a distributor.
With a towel wrapped around my hips, I get my toiletry bag to brush my teeth since I didn’t have time after a quick lunch on the go. I unzip the main compartment and find a folded note that I didn’t pack.
Peyton’s loopy handwriting is unmistakable.
Didn’t want you to suffer another night of adult mint. I couldn’t fit a tube because of airport security, but the gel in the jar is strawberry toothpaste. Love you, P
She packed me a tiny plastic jar filled with red paste visible through the clear sides.
I close my fist around it. It’s such a small gesture, and yet it’s everything.
The physical distance between us collapses into a single point of need. Not sexual or urgent in the way my body has wanted her from the start. Deeper than that. A bone-level ache to be near the woman who hid strawberry toothpaste in my luggage after she got me hooked on it.
I set the jar on the counter, grab my phone, and dial.
My secretary picks up on the second ring. “Mr. Rockwood?”
“Hi, Rosie, please cancel my dinner tonight. Apologize, tell them I had a family matter come up. Reschedule for next month—I’ll do a video call if they prefer.
” I don’t wait for her to finish writing it down.
“And get me on a flight home this evening. Anything with a seat. I don’t care about the airline. ”
“Sir, I’m not sure a direct flight will be available—”
“Whatever it is, book it.”
A pause. “Yes, sir.”
I hang up and look at the jar of strawberry toothpaste on the marble counter.
Then I brush my teeth with it, grinning like an idiot.
* * *
Peyton
I’m in bed getting overly emotional over my latest romance read and feeling sillily lonely, considering Liam only left this morning. Through the windows, the forest is a wall of black against the last bruised strip of twilight.
It’s past nine. I’ve had an early dinner at my parents’.
They’ve just settled into their new home, a small cottage with a partial lake view, and are loving life in Blue Crescent Harbor.
I thought they’d hate leaving their home and starting a new practice from zero.
But they swear they prefer living near me and seem reinvigorated from starting over.
And Liam has helped them find their footing in the area with all his business contacts.
Now, I’ve showered and changed into his navy hoodie. I sniff the hem, wishing I could bury my nose in his neck instead—go straight to the source.
I’m still inhaling his scent when the doorbell rings.
I sit bolt upright, my pulse kicking into a higher gear. No one visits at this hour. I didn’t order takeout. And the nearest neighbors are half a mile through dense trees.
The bell rings again.
I swing my legs off the bed and pad to the top of the stairs, bare feet silent on the floor. The foyer below is dark, the porch light casting a rectangle of gold through the glass panels flanking the front door.
A thief wouldn’t ring the bell, I tell myself. A serial killer might. They’re famous for giving courtesy calls. Only in the movies, I hope.
I hop down the stairs, heart in my throat, and cross the foyer. I’m reaching for the deadbolt when the lock clicks from the other side.
The door swings inward.
I scream.
A full-throated, glass-shattering shriek that bounces off the high ceilings. I stagger backward, catching myself against the wall.
Liam steps inside, rolling his overnight carry-on behind him, his formal coat open over a wrinkled Henley. He’s a little travel rumpled. Hair messy, faint stubble, his eyes shadowed with fatigue.
But he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
“You scared me!” I gasp, pressing a hand over my hammering heart.
“That’s why I rang the bell.” He pushes the suitcase to the side and shuts the door. “I didn’t want to startle you.”
I’m still panting, half from the fright, half from the excitement of seeing him. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. What are you doing home?”
Liam closes the distance between us in two strides. His hands cup my face, tilting it up, and his gray eyes bore into mine with a sudden, heavy gravity that kicks up a frantic, muted pulse against the skin where his thumbs rest.
“This,” he says, and pushes me against the wall.
His mouth covers mine, and the kicking pulse spreads everywhere.
The kiss is not gentle. Liam is thorough and almost desperate. His body pins me flat against the plaster, hips pressing into mine.
But beneath the urgency, a tenderness bleeds through in the way his thumb brushes my jaw. The soft sound he makes when I open my mouth wider. The slight tremor in his fingers.
It’s the kiss of a man who flew a thousand miles because he couldn’t be a night without me.
When we break apart, my chest is heaving. His forehead drops against mine, and we stand in the dim foyer, chest to chest, sharing breaths.
“Hey,” I whisper. “What’s going on?”
“I found the toothpaste.”
I push him back to look at him. “You flew home early because of strawberry toothpaste?”
“No, for the woman who hid it in my bag.”
I smile. “If I’d known strawberry toothpaste had this effect on you, I’d have sent it sooner.”
His hands find my hips, and he drops to the floor in front of me on both knees.
His fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, and he looks up at me. “Marry me.”
I stare down at him. His gray eyes are steady, certain, raw with a vulnerability he rarely shows.
I drop my hands on his shoulders, still smiling. “Bit late for that. We’ve been married from day one.”
“I’m asking for real,” he insists. “If we’d never gotten fake-married, if I’d met you at a bar and we dated like normal people, I’d be on my knees right now, begging you to be my wife.”
His grip tightens on my hips. The muscles in his jaw work, and the first crack appears in his composure—a flicker of insecurity behind the steel of his eyes.
“I want you to be my wife,” he says. “In every way. Not because of a deal or a contract or a Zoom call.” His thumb traces a circle against my hip bone.
“But because you’re the first person who made me feel like I was enough.
Because I can’t sleep without you. Because you hide strawberry toothpaste in my bag and leave sarcastic notes on my fridge and fight my father for me when I’m not in the room. ”
My vision blurs.
“Do you want to be my wife?” he pleads.
“Of course I want to be your wife.” The words crack in the middle, splintered by a chuckling sob. “Of course I do.”
I drop to my knees in front of him and kiss him with everything I have.
We don’t make it upstairs. Not the first time.
The hard floor is unforgiving, but I don’t care. We shed layers between kisses, frantic and laughing and clumsy. When he presses into me, I think, absurdly, that this is the most romantic moment of my life, and it’s happening on a floor.
* * *
The next morning, we’re having breakfast at the round table by the window, already stoically dressed for work considering we didn’t get much sleep last night; not even after we moved from the floor to the bed. Every muscle in my body aches in the most satisfying way.
Liam looks sharp in his business suit. The only telltale sign of our nightly activities is the faint dark shades under his eyes.
“So.” He takes a sip of coffee. “How do you want to do the ceremony?”
“Yeah, mmm.” I snort. “I’m not very good at those.”
Liam’s smirk sharpens over the rim of his mug. “Should I be worried? Are you going to pull a runner on me again?”
“Never.” I set down my coffee and slide off my chair to settle into his lap. “You’re stuck with me.”
I loop my arms around his neck. He tilts his chin up, and I kiss him. He tastes of our dark roast and of all the future mornings we just promised each other.
When I pull back, I brush my nose against his. “We can’t stage a big vow renewal. Your mother still hasn’t forgiven me for botching the one she organized.”
He winces. “Fair point.”
“I’m not keen on stuffy parties anyway.” I shrug. “What about you? What do you want?”
Liam thinks for a second.
“Legally, we’re already married,” he says. “So it wouldn’t need to be anything official, just us. I’d like it to be you and me in the cave, exchanging vows.”
I picture us standing in the glow of lanterns, the walls glittering around us, the silence broken only by our promises. No guests. No string quartet. No suffocating dress or five-tier fondant cakes. Just us, like he said.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.