Epilogue New Adventures
Epilogue
New Adventures
Frankie
Six Months Later
“You named the Wi-Fi ‘PrettyFlyForAWiFi’ again.” Hayes shakes his head, staring at his laptop screen. “We’re on a yacht in the Greek islands. Couldn’t you have gone with something more . . . sophisticated?”
“Like what? ‘YachtRockOnly’? ‘BillionaireBoysClub’?” I’m sprawled across the sun lounger in a bikini that cost more than my old monthly clothing budget, but whatever. Golden Adventures is officially killing it, and I can afford nice things now.
“Those are actually better than your usual choices.”
“Excuse me, but my Wi-Fi names are art. Remember ‘MartinRouterKing’? ‘TheLANBeforeTime’? Those were comedy gold.”
Hayes closes his laptop and moves to the lounger next to mine. Six months of being together, and he still looks at me like I’m some fascinating puzzle he can’t quite solve.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love my ridiculousness.”
“I do.”
The simple admission still does things to my chest. Even after all this time.
We’re anchored off Santorini, taking a break from the Golden Adventures Mediterranean tour I’m personally leading. Twelve couples in their seventies, all having the time of their lives exploring Greek islands without worrying about mobility issues or dietary restrictions.
Hayes invested in the company three months ago. Not because I needed the money—Charles’s inheritance took care of that—but because watching me build something from nothing apparently does things to his possessive streak.
Case in point: Yesterday, when Dimitri, our very attractive Greek tour guide, spent too much time explaining Byzantine history to me.
“He’s just being thorough,” I told Hayes when he appeared at my elbow like a gorgeous, territorial shadow.
“He’s being thorough with his eyeballs on your ass.”
“My ass is covered by a very respectable sundress.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. Then he kissed me in front of the entire tour group, marking his territory like some kind of billionaire caveman.
Our clients loved it. Mrs. Martinez actually clapped.
Now we’re having a rare afternoon alone while the group explores Oia. Hayes is reading some architecture magazine—he’s been taking classes, slowly figuring out what he actually wants instead of what he’s supposed to want.
“Mrs. Patterson cornered me this morning,” I tell him.
“What did she want?”
“To know when we’re getting married.”
Hayes goes very still. “What did you tell her?”
“That it’s none of her business.”
“And?”
“And that if she keeps asking personal questions, I’ll book her the worst cabin on the next cruise.”
He laughs, but there’s something careful in his expression. We haven’t talked about marriage. Haven’t talked about the future beyond next month’s tour schedule.
It’s not that I don’t want those things. It’s that I’m still getting used to having them be possible.
“What if . . .” Hayes sets down his magazine. “What if we did?”
“Did what?”
“Got married.”
I nearly choke on my iced coffee. “Are you proposing?”
“I’m asking a hypothetical question.”
“That’s a terrible hypothetical proposal.”
“It’s not a proposal. It’s market research.”
“Market research?”
“I’m gauging interest levels.”
I stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re treating marriage like a business venture?”
“Everything’s a business venture if you think about it strategically enough.”
“Oh my God. You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“That’s the problem.”
Hayes shifts on his lounger, suddenly looking less like a confident billionaire and more like a guy who’s trying not to panic.
“Forget I said anything.”
“No.” I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of my chair. “You don’t get to bring up marriage and then retreat into corporate speak.”
Hayes runs a hand through his hair. Six months together, and he still does this when he’s nervous—tries to fix things that aren’t broken.
“I’m not retreating. I meant . . .” He takes a breath. “I meant I love you. I meant I want to spend my life with you. I meant the idea of you not being mine officially makes me want to buy this entire fucking island just to prove a point.”
There it is. The possessive streak that should probably annoy me but instead makes my stomach do flips.
“Yours officially?”
“Poor word choice.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. No. Maybe.” He stands up, starts pacing the deck. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Be vulnerable without a safety net. Ask for things I want instead of things that make sense.”
I watch him pace, this beautiful, complicated man who’s learned to crack jokes and eat carbs and let me see him fall apart.
“What do you want, Hayes?”
He stops pacing. Looks at me like I’m holding the answer to every question he’s ever had.
“You. Forever. In every way that matters.”
My heart does that hummingbird thing it’s been doing since the first time he kissed me.
“That’s all you had to say.”
“Is it a yes?”
“It’s an ‘ask me properly and find out.’”
Hayes grins—the real one, not the polished version he shows investors. “I can work with that.”
Three hours later, I’m getting ready for dinner when my phone buzzes with a text from Hayes.
Hayes: Meet me on the upper deck. Wear the blue dress.
I find the blue dress—the one he bought me in Paris, the one that makes me feel like a movie star—and head upstairs.
The upper deck is transformed. String lights everywhere, candles, a table set for two overlooking the sunset. It’s like something out of a romance novel.
Hayes stands by the railing in a navy suit, holding a small velvet box.
“Oh, shit.”
“That’s not the reaction I was hoping for.”
“I mean . . . oh, wow. Good wow. Not bad wow.”
“Better.”
He’s nervous. I can tell because his tie’s perfectly straight—he only obsesses over details when he’s freaking out internally.
“Francesca.”
“Yeah?”
“Last year you walked into my uncle’s life and changed everything. You made him laugh again. You made him remember what it felt like to live instead of just exist.”
My throat gets tight.
“But what you did to me was even bigger. You made me remember what it felt like to want something. Really want it, not just accept what was expected.”
“Hayes . . .”
“I’m not finished.” He drops to one knee, and my brain short-circuits. “You make me want to be better. Not perfect—you’ve made it very clear you have no use for perfect—but better. Real. Present.”
He opens the box. The ring is gorgeous—vintage, unique, nothing like the massive rocks other billionaires probably buy their girlfriends.
“It was my great-grandmother’s. Charles left it to me with very specific instructions about who should wear it.”
Of course he did. Bossy old bastard.
“Francesca Anderson, will you marry me and continue to call me on my bullshit for the rest of our lives?”
I stare at him. At the ring. At the way he’s looking at me like I hold his entire future in my hands.
Which, I guess I do.
“Can I negotiate the terms?”
“What?”
“I want to keep my business. I want to travel. I want kids who eat junk food and make terrible jokes. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be one of those gluten-free, dairy-free, fun-free weirdos. I want a life that’s messy and real and nothing like the one you grew up in.”
Hayes’s smile could power the entire Greek electrical grid.
“Deal.”
“And I want to start a foundation. For seniors who can’t afford to travel but deserve adventures.”
“Done.”
“And I want you to stop pretending you don’t want things just because they might make you happy.”
His eyebrows lift. “Meaning?”
“Meaning if you want to do something other than manage money for the rest of your life, do it. Charles left you enough fuck-you money to tell your family to shove their expectations.”
“Anything else?”
I pretend to think about it. “Yeah. One more thing.”
“What?”
“I want you to promise me that when we fight—not if, when—you won’t run. You’ll stay and figure it out with me.”
His expression goes soft. Vulnerable in a way that still catches me off guard.
“That’s all I want too.”
“Good. Then yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you, you beautiful disaster.”
He slides the ring onto my finger and kisses me while the sun sets over the Aegean Sea. It tastes like promises and possibilities and the kind of love that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
When we break apart, I notice my phone lighting up between us—a new notification blinks at the top. “Did you change the Wi-Fi password for this?”
Hayes grins. “Check your phone.”
I pull up the network list. There’s a new one: “WillYouMarryMe?”
“The password is ‘PrettyFlyForAWife.’”
I burst out laughing. “That’s terrible.”
“I thought you’d appreciate the callback.”
“I do. I really do.”
Hayes
Six Months Later
Our wedding is everything Frankie wanted and nothing my mother planned.
We’re back in Provence, in the same lavender fields where we had our first real date. Tessa’s the maid of honor, Maddie’s the flower girl, and Malachi’s my best man, despite threatening to tell embarrassing stories in his speech.
Mom spent three months trying to convince us to have the ceremony at the estate. “Think of the photos, darling. The networking opportunities.”
Frankie shut that down fast. “We’re getting married, not hosting a corporate retreat.”
Now Mom’s sitting in the front row, wearing lavender and trying to pretend she’s not crying. Dad’s beside her, looking genuinely happy for the first time in years.
But the chair that matters most is empty. Charles should be here, probably making inappropriate jokes and trying to spike the punch.
Instead, we have his picture on a small table next to the officiant, surrounded by the kind of tacky flowers he would have loved.
Frankie appears at the end of the makeshift aisle, and my brain stops working.
Her dress is simple, elegant, nothing like the princess gowns Mom tried to push. Her hair’s down, the way I like it, and she’s carrying wildflowers she picked this morning.
She looks perfect. More than perfect.
She looks like home.
My home.
My forever.
The ceremony’s short—neither of us wanted a production. But when the officiant asks if I take Francesca to be my wife, my voice cracks on the “I do.”
“You okay?” she whispers.
“Never better.”
When it’s her turn, she doesn’t just say “I do.” She says, “I do, but I’m keeping my name professionally, and if you ever run away from me again, I’ll hunt you down and make you regret it.”
The crowd laughs. And me? I fall a little more in love.
We kiss while lavender petals fall around us like confetti, and I think about wishes made in Central Park fountains. About how sometimes the best things happen when you stop trying to control everything.
The reception’s held at a local vineyard. Nothing fancy, just good food and wine and the people we actually want to celebrate with.
During dinner, Frankie stands up to make a speech.
“So, I’m not good at this stuff,” she starts, and immediately gets a laugh. “But I wanted to say something about love and second chances and the man who taught us both what those things really mean.”
She raises her glass toward Charles’s picture.
“Charles Winthrop was a pain in the ass. He meddled in our lives, manipulated us into spending time together, and probably planned this whole thing from the moment I walked into that coffee shop.”
More laughter.
“But he also showed us that family isn’t about blood or money or meeting expectations. It’s about showing up—every day—for the people who matter.”
Her voice gets thick.
“Hayes and I wouldn’t be here without him. So this first dance isn’t just for us—it’s for Charles, who believed in love stories even when the people in them were too stupid to see what was right in front of them.”
The band starts playing—some jazz standard that Charles used to hum while doing crosswords.
I pull Frankie into my arms, and we dance on grass under string lights, surrounded by people who love us.
“Any regrets?” I ask.
“About what?”
“Marrying an emotionally constipated billionaire with control issues?”
“Former control issues,” she corrects. “And no regrets. You?”
“Just one.”
She looks worried. “What?”
“I should have kissed you that first day in my office.”
“I would have slapped you.”
“Probably.”
“Definitely.”
“It would have been worth it.”
We dance until the band stops playing and the guests start heading back to their hotels. Maddie fell asleep in Dad’s lap hours ago, and even Malachi’s given up trying to scandalize the elderly relatives.
Finally, it’s just us and the vineyard owner’s cat, who’s been eyeing the leftover salmon all evening.
“So,” Frankie says, leaning against me. “What now?”
“Now we go on our honeymoon.”
“Which is where, exactly? You’ve been very secretive about it.”
I grin. “It’s a surprise.”
“I told you I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we’re going back to the yacht. Just us this time. No tour groups, no schedules, no one to impress.”
Her face lights up. “Really?”
“Really. I figured we could recreate our first trip. Except this time, when I kiss you, I’m not running away.”
“Good plan.”
“I thought so.”
We walk back to our hotel room—the same one where Charles stayed during his last visit to Provence. It feels right, somehow. Like he’s still with us, still orchestrating our happiness even from beyond the grave.
The room’s been decorated with rose petals and champagne, courtesy of Tessa’s romantic streak.
“Very subtle,” Frankie says, eyeing the heart-shaped arrangement on the bed.
“I may have mentioned to Tessa that subtlety isn’t always necessary.”
“Smart man.”
She kicks off her shoes and pulls the pins from her hair, shaking it loose around her shoulders. It shouldn’t still undo me the way it does, but it does—every time.
“Come here, wife.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
I pull her close, kissing her slowly, thoroughly, like we have all the time in the world.
Which we do.
Outside, the lavender fields stretch toward the horizon, purple and endless under the star-filled sky. Somewhere in the distance, I swear I can hear Charles laughing.
The old bastard was right. The best adventures aren’t the ones you plan. They find you when you’re brave enough to say yes. They’re in the chaos of a woman who drives you crazy and makes you feel alive.
Love like that doesn’t ask permission. It just barges in. And Frankie? She kicked down the door—with liverwurst, terrible Wi-Fi puns, zero apologies, and a smile that wrecked me completely.
And me? I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. I’m all in.