Epilogue
Aaron
Three months since we temporarily relocated to Yorkshire, and somehow, we’re still here.
St Claire in summer feels like an entirely different place—the hills greener, the air thick with honeysuckle, Bernard trotting proudly past the cottage most mornings with his pig still tied to his harness like a badge of honour.
Eve and I have already extended our stay twice. The owners were delighted, probably because we’ve singlehandedly funded their next holiday. But this time our luck’s run out. The booking ends next week, and someone else has already claimed the cottage.
Eve’s on the sofa, legs curled under her, completely lost in a book. She doesn’t even notice me watching her. Sunlight catches her hair, and for a moment I forget about the ticking clock of our lease.
I reach out, pluck the book gently from her hands, and set it aside.
“Hey,” she protests, blinking up at me. “I was reading that.”
“I know,” I say, tugging her closer until she ends up sitting across my lap. “I was feeling neglected.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t move away. “You’re impossible.”
“True. But you love me anyway.”
“I do,” she says softly, and something about the ease in her voice still floors me.
I trail my fingers along her arm, pretending to sound casual. “You know our booking’s up next week.”
Her smile falters. “I know.”
“Which means we’ll have to pack up and say goodbye to this place.”
She looks down, her expression turning wistful. “That sounds awful.”
“Yeah,” I say, pressing a kiss on her temple. “It does.”
I let the silence linger for a heartbeat, then reach for the envelope sitting on the coffee table. “Luckily,” I say, “I might have a plan.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicious. “What have you done?”
“Nothing too reckless,” I promise, handing her the envelope. “Open it.”
She takes it, still eyeing me like I’m about to unveil something outrageous. When she slides out the contents, her expression changes. It’s a brochure—photos of a stone cottage framed by climbing roses, a wide garden, and hills rolling away behind it.
“Where is this?” she asks, her voice suddenly softer. “I haven’t seen that on the holiday cottage website.”
I hesitate for a second, then smile. “You wouldn’t have. It’s not for rent.”
She looks up, frowning slightly. “Then what is it?”
“For sale,” I say, watching her closely. “I’ve been talking to the estate agent. It’s old, but solid. Needs a bit of work—the kind of work you’d complain about while secretly enjoying.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. “You’re thinking of buying it?”
I nod. “Not thinking. Planning.”
“Aaron…” she breathes, half in disbelief, half in warning. “That’s… that’s a big thing.”
“I know,” I say, reaching for her hand. “But I don’t want temporary anymore. I don’t want weeks or leases or end dates. I want this—a home. Here. With you.”
She stares at me, eyes wide, lips parting as if she’s about to speak but can’t quite find the words.
“I can already see it,” I go on quietly. “You at the kitchen table, me pretending I know how to fix something while you tell me I’m doing it wrong.”
Her laugh comes out shaky, caught between tears and joy. “You’re serious.”
“Completely,” I say.
She studies me, still half-suspicious. I grin. “And to prove it, I want to introduce you to someone.”
Before she can ask, I ease her gently off my lap and get to my feet. “Stay there,” I tell her, heading for the door.
She calls after me, laughing. “Aaron, what are you—”
A moment later, I step back inside, cradling something small and wriggling in my arms.
Eve blinks. “Is that—?”
“A beagle,” I confirm, holding the puppy a little closer so she can see his oversized paws and the way his ears are far too big for his head. “Mrs Higgins put me in touch with a friend of a friend in a neighbouring village whose dog had a litter. I might have… accidentally agreed to take one.”
She gasps, one hand flying to her mouth as the puppy sniffs the air, tail wagging like a metronome.
“Aaron!”
“I thought Bernard might need some competition in the village,” I say, settling beside her again. “And I figured you wouldn’t mind the company either.”
The pup gives a determined yip and promptly climbs into her lap, nose burrowing into her jumper. Eve laughs and strokes his soft ears.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
I grin. “Sir Reginald Wigglebottom.”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide with disbelief before she dissolves into laughter. “You’re joking.”
“Absolutely not,” I say solemnly. “He’s dignified. Distinguished. A gentleman among dogs.”
She looks down at the tiny creature currently curled up on her lap. “He’s chewing his own paw.”
“Every great knight has his flaws,” I say, deadpan.
She tries to look unimpressed, but another giggle escapes. “Sir Reginald Wigglebottom,” she repeats, shaking her head. “Bernard’s going to feel terribly outclassed.”
“Exactly,” I say, leaning back with a satisfied smile. “A little healthy rivalry never hurt anyone.”
She rolls her eyes but cuddles the pup closer. “Fine. Sir Reginald it is. Reggie, for short.”
“See? You’re already soft on him.”
“Maybe,” she says, though the affection in her voice gives her away.
I watch them together—her smile, the little bundle of fur dozing in her arms, the sunlight spilling through the window—and I realise that this is everything I’d been searching for without even knowing it.
Our new home. Our ridiculous, pompous puppy.
And her. Always her.