Epilogue A Yuletide Yes
Three months later
ROARKE
It’s amazing how much can change in just ninety days.
Christmas Eve at Mémé Ada’s villa in Cannes glows like something out of a snow globe—if snow globes came with palm trees, olive groves, and the scent of roasting chestnuts drifting in from the Mediterranean.
The villa’s ancient stone walls are draped with garlands of greenery dotted with pomegranates and dried oranges, each archway outlined in warm fairy lights.
Through the windows, I glimpse long tables sagging under Ada’s legendary feast—bowls of handmade pasta, roasted fish fresh from the morning market, bread so warm it steams when broken open.
From outside, the sounds of the season inside wrap around me.
Connor’s booming voice mid-regatta story. Mémé Ada’s orders in rapid-fire French, and, of course, Isla’s high-pitched laughter ringing like bells.
My niece is everywhere.
Darting between the tables in her cranberry velvet dress. Ferrying cookies from the kitchen to the dessert table…
Sneaking more than one when she thinks no one’s watching.
Her wispy fawn hair is braided with sprigs of rosemary, courtesy of Ada. And she’s been glued to Captain Feathers all evening, teaching him “Merry Christmas.”
The bird, predictably, has gone rogue, bellowing “MARRY MIA!” instead.
Six months ago, Isla barely let me fix her hair without squirming away. Now she tugs on my hand to show me her latest drawing or to ask whether the red napkins or the gold ones look more “fancy Christmas.”
I’m not just her uncle anymore…
I’m the person she counts on to keep my promises. And I’ve learned the weight and worth of that trust.
I should be inside with her. But I’m on the terrace, staring down at the harbor where the Mia Bella waits.
Thirty feet of sleek, white promise with the woman I love’s name in shining gold script along the hull.
And my hands are shaking like a rookie sailor in rough seas.
Connor sidles up with two glasses of Ada’s lethal Christmas punch—champagne, citrus, and something that tastes suspiciously like brandy. “You keep pacing like that, you’ll wear a groove into the terrace. And you’ve checked your watch more than a man waiting for a merger to close.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure,” he says. “And Captain Feathers is subtle.”
As if on cue: “MARRY MIA! MARRY MIA!” echoes from inside, followed by Isla’s delighted giggle.
Donovan joins us, whiskey in hand. “In hospitality, we call this pre-launch panic.”
“This isn’t a launch.”
Zander appears with a drink, Prescott with his usual dry delivery. “Looks like one from here,” Prescott notes. “Two parties combining assets, sharing resources, creating something greater than the sum of their parts…”
Through the glass, I see Mia—deep green dress hugging every curve—helping Ada and her older sister Julianna arrange dessert plates. Her hair falls loose over one shoulder, catching the candlelight every time she laughs.
Every time she glances my way, my chest tightens, my cock hardens, and I remember exactly why I’m doing this tonight.
Three months on the West Wind. Three months waking up to her chaos, falling asleep to her warmth, hearing her laugh mix with Isla’s.
And tonight, I’m asking her to marry me.
"The boat's beautiful," Connor says quietly, following my gaze to the harbor. "Though possibly the most obvious proposal setup in maritime history."
“Dammit, you think? I was trying to be…thoughtful. She loves sailing. Her parents taught her to sail. It's symbolic of—"
"Commitment issues?" Donovan suggests. "Because nothing says 'I love you' like a vehicle that can literally sail away?"
"Or maybe it's perfect," Zander adds, "because it represents freedom and adventure and all those things she gave up to find her independence with you."
I glare at him. "Your renewable energy philosophy is showing."
"My renewable energy philosophy is about sustainable partnerships that benefit both parties long-term," he corrects. "Which, coincidentally, is the very opposite of every marriage I know." He slaps Connor’s shoulder. “Aside from this one’s.”
"PRETTY BOAT! PRETTY BOAT FOR PRETTY MIA!" Captain Feathers' voice carries clearly from inside.
"You know what your problem is?" Connor leans against the terrace railing, completely relaxed despite discussing my impending emotional crisis. "You're overthinking it. When I proposed to Ariana, I had this whole elaborate plan involving her favorite restaurant and a string quartet."
"And?"
"I ended up proposing on our balcony after she finished remote-handling a client crisis." He grins. "Best decision I ever made, even if the timing was terrible."
Before I can respond, the terrace doors open and Mia steps out, her smile brighter than all of Ada's fairy lights combined.
“Look at the four of you, all huddled around.” She slips her arm through mine. “Plotting something out here? Bianca thinks you all might be planning to steal Ada's tiramisu recipe."
"Nothing that ambitious," I manage, throat drying with each syllable. "Just... enjoying the view."
"It is beautiful," she agrees, looking out over the harbor. Her eyes catch on the Mia Bella, and she tilts her head. "That's a lovely boat. I don't remember seeing it there yesterday."
My friends trade looks that are about as subtle as Captain Feathers' marriage commentary.
"Would you like to see it?" I ask, the words tumbling out. "The boat, I mean. It's... there's something I want to show you."
"Now?" She glances back at the villa where Ada's calling everyone to dinner. "But the feast—"
"Will wait," Ada's voice carries from the doorway. "The boat, however, is only beautiful in this light for a few more minutes. Go! Go! Enjoy your Christmas surprises."
Mia's eyebrows arch toward the sky. "Christmas surprise?"
"Among other things," I mutter, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.
The walk to the harbor takes exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds.
I know because I count every step, my hand sweating where it holds hers, the ring box in my jacket pocket feeling heavier with each footfall.
"Roarke," Mia stops short as we reach the dock, staring at the Mia Bella in all her sleek, thirty-foot glory. "Please tell me you didn't—"
"Buy you a sailboat for Christmas? And if I did?”
“Then I’d say that this is absolutely excessive gift-giving.”
“Depends on your definition of excessive. I don’t think giving the woman I love exactly what she deserves would qualify as excessive.” I reach for her hand, swallowing it with mine. “Would you?”
"Roarke, oh my—This is too much. It's beautiful, but—"
"But nothing." I step closer, my hands finding her waist. "You gave up your dreams of sailing around the world to take care of Isla and me. This is... this is those dreams back. Whenever you want them."
Tears glisten in her eyes as she looks from the boat to me and back again. "The name..."
"Mia Bella. Because you are. Beautiful. And mine, if you'll have me."
She kisses me then, soft and sweet and tasting like Ada's Christmas punch and everything I could ever want.
What starts as gratitude quickly becomes something deeper, more desperate, as three months of shared mornings and whispered confessions and building a life together crashes over us like a wave.
"Show me," she huffs softly against my lips. "Show me our boat."
The Mia Bella’s cabin is warm and welcoming, all honey-colored wood and soft lighting, smelling faintly of cedar, salt, and something that belongs to her alone—that sexy scent of sun-warmed skin and the perfume that has been driving me mad for months.
The second the door clicks shut, I have her pressed back against it, my mouth devouring hers.
Her lips open under mine, and my tongue slides immediately in.
“God, I’ve been hard for you all night,” I growl against her mouth, one hand fisting in her hair, the other sliding up under her dress. “Sitting through dinner, watching you smile at everyone else when all I wanted was you—alone, spread out, taking my cock like you were made for it.”
She moans, the sound low and desperate, and I move forward, my hands slipping her dress from her shoulders. The green silk falls to the floor in a whisper, pooling at her feet to reveal lace the exact color of sin.
“Fuck, Mia…” My thumbs trace the edge of her bra before yanking the cups down, freeing her breasts to my hands and mouth. I suck one dusky-pink nipple hard, my teeth scraping just enough to make her gasp, while my other hand slides between her thighs.
She’s already wet, the heat of her searing my fingers as I rub slow circles over her clit through the lace. “You’re drenched. Sitting at that table all night like this, knowing I couldn’t touch you. Were you thinking about me? Thinking about this cock filling you up?”
“Yes,” she breathes, her hips rolling into my hand. “Always.”
The answer nearly undoes me.
I hook my fingers into her panties, tearing them down her legs and lifting her onto the small dining table. The wood creaks under her as I step between her knees, unzipping just enough to free myself.
The moment I sink into her, we both groan—me from the tight, slick heat gripping my cock, her from the stretch she takes so perfectly.
I push in to the hilt, holding there for a beat just to feel her pulse around me.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” I rasp, starting to move, my hips snapping against hers. “I could live inside you.”
Her fingers claw into my shoulders, pulling me closer. “Don’t stop, Roarke—”
“I couldn’t if I tried,” I grind out, my pace deep and steady, my hands gripping her perfect ass to drag her onto me harder. “Look at me, Mia. Look at me when I tell you—” I thrust hard, making her gasp. “—that I love you more than my next breath.”
“I love you, too, Roarke. So much.”
Her eyes are glassy with lust, her lips parted, and that’s when it hits me.
Sharp. Unstoppable.
“Marry me.”
She blinks, breathless. “What?”
I fuck into her harder, the table thudding against the wall. “Marry me. Say yes, so every time I think about this moment, I’ll remember exactly how you felt—how you sounded—when you promised me forever.”
Her nails rake my back, brown eyes glowing. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe…but I’m yours. And you’re mine. Now say it.”
Her body clenches around me, her moan breaking into a laugh. “Yes. God, yes.”
That single word detonates something in me.
I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing her cry as I drive her over the edge, following her with a release that leaves us both shaking, holding on like we—and the life we’ve built together—are the only solid thing in the world.
I’m still pulsing inside her when the last wave of my orgasm fades, my hands braced on either side of her, chest heaving.
But I don’t pull out.
I can’t.
She’s flushed and glowing in the golden cabin light, the green lace of her bra askew, her hair wild around her face.
The woman I love desperately looks ruined. In the most perfect, satisfied way.
And this time, when I kiss her, it’s slow and claiming—sealing the promise we just made in every way that matters.
Much later, after we've thoroughly christened our engagement and the Mia Bella's structural integrity, I finally remember something…
The ring.
"There was actually supposed to be a proper proposal," I admit, fishing the box from my discarded jacket. "With a ring and probably better timing."
She laughs, admiring the emerald that complements her eyes. "I prefer this version. Very us."
"Unconventional?"
"Perfect," she confesses, letting me slide the ring onto her finger. "Though we should probably get back before Ada sends a search party."
"Or before Captain Feathers starts planning our wedding reception," I agree, kissing her hand where the emerald catches the moonlight.
As we walk back to the villa hand in hand, we can hear the celebration before we see it.
Laughter and music spilling from the windows. Warm light beckoning us home.
"Ready to face the chaos?" I ask.
"With you?" She squeezes my hand. "Always."
And as Captain Feathers' triumphant squawk of "MARRY CHRISTMAS! MARRY CHRISTMAS!" echoes across the harbor, for once, I can’t argue with the bird.
Some traditions are better when broken.
Especially when they lead to better ones.
Like unconventional proposals and borrowed families and the brave choice to build something beautiful from the wreckage of what came before.
Together.
***
Ready for more gorgeous men, meddling family, and hot Mediterranean nights?
Donovan’s story is next.