Epilogue Merry Codemas
SAGE
Christmas Eve arrives on jets.
And not a moment too soon.
Because there’s nothing like sitting in my parents' living room on cold, December evening, watching Luke Sterling—billionaire tech genius and man who once trapped an ambassador in a bathroom—get absolutely destroyed at Pictionary by my mother.
"It's clearly a Christmas tree!" Mom shouts, studying Luke's drawing with the intensity of an art critic at the Louvre.
"It's a server rack," Luke says patiently. "See? These are the—"
"Pine needles!"
"Network cables."
"Weird pine needles!"
"I give up.” My brave man sets down the marker. "Apparently everything I draw looks like holiday decorations."
"Don't feel bad," I pat his knee. "Last year she insisted Dad's drawing of a car was a 'festive turkey.'"
"It did look like a festive turkey," Harper chimes in from across the room where she's nursing baby James, who at three weeks old has already perfected his mother's judgmental expression. "Four wheels, questionable body placement."
"This family has no appreciation for abstract art," Dad mutters.
"Is that what we're calling your Pictionary skills?" Mom asks sweetly, entering with a tray of cookies that definitely aren't from her kitchen. "Abstract?"
"Store-bought?" Harper gasps in mock horror. "Mother, the scandal!"
"I've been cooking for two days straight. Sue me for outsourcing cookies." She sets the tray down with a defensive clatter. "Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Frank. He's been sneaking rum into the eggnog since noon."
"Tradition!" Dad shouts. "It's tradition!"
"Alcoholism disguised as tradition," Mom mutters.
My phone buzzes for the thousandth time in ten minutes. I glance at it, trying to be subtle.
MIRA: Small crisis. Buttercup figured out how to open the wine cellar.
Before I can respond, Luke plucks the phone from my hand.
"Hey!"
"You promised," he says, holding it above his head where my 5'4" frame has no hope of reaching. "No inn emergencies during family Christmas."
"But Buttercup—"
"Will be fine. Mira's handled worse." He pockets my phone with the efficiency of someone who's been confiscating it all week. "Besides, we have a game to win."
"We're losing by thirty points."
"Temporary setback." He adjusts his glasses in that way that still makes heart beat faster after weeks of watching him do it. "I have a strategy."
"Your last strategy involved drawing what Mom insists was a 'fancy Christmas tree.'"
"It was clearly a firewall protection system."
"With tinsel," Mom chimes in from across the room. "I saw tinsel."
Claire laughs from the couch, her feet propped on David's lap. "Face it, Luke. You've been defeated by the Winters women."
"The Winters women are formidable opponents," Luke agrees.
"Damn right we are," Harper says, then immediately covers James's ears. "Sorry, James. Auntie said a bad word. Don't tell Mommy and Daddy."
"He's three weeks old," her husband Ben points out. "I don't think he's filing it away for later."
"You don't know that. He could be a genius baby. A judgmental genius baby who's cataloging all my parenting failures."
"Your only failure is this weird competitive thing with David about who changes more diapers," Claire says.
"It's not weird! It's about equal partnership!"
"You made a spreadsheet.” David’s brows life. "With color-coded graphs."
"Data doesn't lie!"
"Alright, competitive weirdos," I announce. "Next round. Charades. Boys versus girls because I'm feeling vindictive about Luke hiding my phone."
"It's for your own good," Luke insists.
"Nothing that involves separating me from goat updates is for my own good."
"Sage, it's Christmas Eve. Your family's here. Your nephew's here." He nods toward James, who's milk-drunk and blissfully unaware of the chaos his aunt usually manages. "Be present."
"I hate when you're right."
"I'm always right. It's a burden." But he's smiling, that soft smile that appeared after we made up and hasn't left.
What follows is forty-five minutes of increasingly competitive charades.
Mom turns out to be surprisingly good at acting out "The Crown," complete with corgi impressions.
Dad's attempt at "Die Hard" involves a lot of falling and what might be interpretive explosions.
David somehow makes "Miracle on 34th Street" look like a hostage situation.
Luke, it turns out, is terrible at charades.
"How was that not obviously 'The Matrix'?" he asks after his failed attempt that looked more like someone fighting invisible bees.
"Because you just stood there moving your hands randomly!"
"I was dodging bullets in slow motion.”
"You looked like you were conducting an orchestra having a seizure."
"That's—Actually fairly accurate."
My phone, tucked in his pocket, buzzes against my hip. I can feel it vibrating with what's probably another frantic text about goat-related wine crimes.
"Give me my phone."
"No."
"Luke."
"Sage."
"What if it's an actual emergency?"
"Then Mira will call the fire department like a normal person." He catches my reaching hand. "What happened to trusting your staff?"
"I do trust my staff. I don't trust our goat."
"Our goat is probably passed out in a food coma. It's Christmas Eve. Even Buttercup takes the night off."
"You don't know her like I do. She’s already figured out how to open wrapped presents. With her teeth. While they were under the tree."
“Genius.”
“Not genius. Terrifying. She has opposable hooves, Luke. Opposable. Hooves."
"Scientifically impossible."
"Tell that to my wine cellar door."
"Your turn!" Claire calls out. "Sage and Luke. Prepare to be destroyed by superior sibling communication."
I stand, pulling Luke with me. "We've got this. What's our category?"
"Holiday movies," Mom announces. "Sage, you're acting."
Harper hands me a slip of paper. I read it and immediately groan.
It reads 'Love Actually’. I’m screwed.
"Time!" Claire shouts.
I launch into my performance, starting with what I think is a obvious heart shape.
"Heart!" Luke shouts. "Love! Romance!"
I nod encouragingly, then pretend to open multiple doors.
"Doors. Many doors. Hotel?"
I shake my head, try again.
More doors. Lots of doors.
"Actually!" He suddenly exclaims. "Love Actually! Multiple storylines, multiple doors opening to love!"
"YES!"
"Time!" Claire calls. "Damn it, that was fast."
"We're a good team," Luke says, pulling me in for a victory kiss that makes my parents exchange one of their looks.
“Unh unh. No PDA during game night," Claire shrieks. "It's distracting James."
"James is unconscious," I point out.
"He's absorbing the environment. I read about it in a parenting blog."
"You read parenting blogs now?"
"I read everything. I'm a new mom. I'm terrified. Sue me."
"You're doing great," Harper assures her. "James is perfect."
"He screamed for three hours yesterday because his sock was 'wrong.'"
"Sounds like he takes after his mother," I mutter.
"I heard that!"
The game continues with increasingly ridiculous rounds.
Dad acts out "Elf" by basically just being himself but with more sugar. Ben's "It's a Wonderful Life" looks suspiciously like a man having an existential crisis, which Harper insists is "too real for Christmas Eve."
Through it all, I keep catching Luke checking his watch.
He's trying to be subtle, but subtlety isn't his strong suit when he's nervous.
"You okay?" I ask during a break for cookie refueling.
"Fine.” His strong jaw ticks. “Great. Wonderful." He adjusts his glasses three times in rapid succession.
"You just used three synonyms for the same emotion. You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You reorganized my mom's spice rack while she was making dinner."
"It was chaotic. Paprika next to cinnamon? Madness."
"Luke."
"I may be slightly nervous."
"About what?"
"Just... Christmas things. Normal Christmas nervousness. Nothing specific. Very general nervousness."
"You're babbling."
"I don't babble. I articulate with excessive precision."
"Lukas Ambrose Sterling…”
"Final round!" Mom announces. "Sudden death Christmas carol charades. Winners get the last piece of pie and eternal bragging rights."
"We should focus on the game," Luke says quickly. "Pie is at stake."
"I don't even like pie."
"Blasphemy. Your mother's apple pie is transcendent."
"Since when do you use words like transcendent about food?"
"Since your mother started feeding me. I've gained five pounds in two weeks."
"Where?" I eye him skeptically. "You look exactly the same."
"It's all in my heart. Emotional weight. From feelings."
"Are you having a stroke? Should I call someone?"
"Game time!" Claire shouts. "Luke, you're up. Christmas carol. Go!"
He takes the slip of paper, reads it, and his face does something complicated.
"Sixty seconds," Harper warns. "Starting... now!"
Luke looks at me, then at the paper, then back at me. His nervousness from earlier intensifies, and suddenly I wonder if this is about more than the game.
He starts by getting down on one knee.
"Kneeling!" I shout. "Prayer! Silent Night?"
He shakes his head, stays on one knee, and mimes putting something on his finger.
"Ring!" My voice cracks. "Wedding ring? Wedding... oh my god."
"Keep guessing!" Claire yells, oblivious to what's happening.
But Luke's not playing anymore.
He's reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box, and my entire family goes silent.
"The carol was 'All I Want for Christmas Is You,'" he says quietly. "But I'm bad at charades, and I'm worse at waiting, and I know this is your family game night but—"
"Luke," I breathe.
"I had a whole speech planned. Something about efficient code and debugging life together. But standing here, with your family watching and your phone buzzing with inn emergencies in my pocket, I realized something."
"What?"
I'm definitely crying.
Claire's crying. Mom's crying.
Even Harper looks suspiciously misty.
"I don't want efficient. I want chaotic.
I want goats eating wedding cakes and midnight plumbing disasters and game nights where your mother defeats me at every single game.
" He opens the box, revealing a ring that catches the Christmas tree lights.
"I want you, Sage. All of you. Forever. Or at least until Buttercup learns to pick locks. "
"She already knows how to pick locks," I manage through tears.
"Then forever," he amends. "Sage Winters, will you marry me? Will you be my partner in chaos and code and questionable livestock decisions?"
"Yes," I say, dropping to my knees in front of him. "Yes to all of it. Yes to forever. Yes to you."
He slides the ring on my finger with shaking hands, and then we're kissing while my family erupts in celebration around us.
"I call maid of honor!" Claire shouts.
"I call making the spreadsheets!" Harper adds.
"I call bringing better wine than whatever Buttercup's currently drinking!" Dad chimes in.
"Absolutely not letting that goat near the wedding dress," Mom declares. "I don't care how cute she looks in a bow tie!"
"We'll discuss it," Luke murmurs against my lips. "After."
"After what?"
"After I tell you the inn is fine. Mira handled the wine situation. Buttercup's contained. Your business is thriving." He grins. "I may have been getting updates all night."
"You sneak!"
"Efficient sneak." He kisses me again. "Soon to be your husband sneak."
"My husband," I repeat, testing the words. "Luke Sterling is going to be my husband."
"If you'll have me."
"Forever," I promise. "Even when you draw Christmas trees that look like server racks."
"They weren't Christmas trees!"
"Mom saw tinsel," I remind him. "The Winters women are never wrong about tinsel."
"Champagne!" Dad announces. "This calls for the good stuff!"
"Frank, that's for New Year's!" Mom scoff-shouts.
"Our daughter just got engaged to a man who sorts spices alphabetically. We're celebrating!"
As my family descends into complete mayhem—Harper demanding to see the ring, Claire already planning the engagement party, Mom happy-crying into Dad's shoulder while simultaneously critiquing his champagne selection—Luke pulls me aside.
"Too soon?" he asks quietly. "I know it's only been—"
“Nearly three months since we met. Two weeks since we found each other again. Approximately forty-eight hours since Buttercup learned to open the wine cellar." I grin. "It's perfect timing."
"Really?"
"Luke, you coded us into permanence. You adopted my goat. You let my family destroy you at Pictionary. If that's not ready for marriage, I don't know what is."
"I love you," he says simply. "Even when you promise our firstborn to goats."
"I love you too. Even when you alphabetize spices."
"That's just good sense."
"That's insanity."
"Tomato, tomahto."
"Christmas tree, server rack."
He laughs, pulling me close. "This is going to be a very interesting marriage."
"The best kind," I agree.
My phone—still in his pocket—buzzes one more time.
"Mira?" I ask.
He checks it, grins. "Buttercup. She figured out how to take selfies. She's documenting her wine cellar adventure."
"Of course she is." I look at my ring, at my family, at the man who drove through the night to declare his love through hacked dating profiles. "You know we're going to have to include her in the wedding."
"Obviously. Ring bearer?"
"Absolutely not. Guest of honor. With supervision."
"Deal." He kisses me once more. "Merry Christmas, future Mrs. Sterling."
"Winters-Sterling. I’m not giving up the chaos name."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
And as my family swarms us with congratulations and questions and plans for what's sure to be a wedding Buttercup will try to eat, I realize something.
I might not have won game night.
But I definitely won everything else.
Even if our goat is currently drunk on expensive wine and taking selfies.
After all, what's love without a mess?
And a goat who's probably already planning her wedding menu.
Heaven help us all.