Epilogue
Wren
One Year Later
The sky is painted in shades of tangerine and plum, the sun sinking behind the hills like it has nowhere else to be. We’re up at the lodge—Hunter’s place.
Well . . . our place now.
I still call it the lodge, even though it doesn’t feel so dark and brooding anymore.
When I moved in earlier this year, I swapped out the heavy curtains for gauzy linen ones, brought in some lighter furniture, added a few vintage rugs and cozy throws, and filled the corners with potted plants and bookshelves.
I expected pushback. Maybe even a dramatic protest. But Hunter only walked in, looked around, nodded once, and said, “Finally feels like home.”
We’re sitting on the porch now, two glasses of wine between us, the sound of cicadas chirping like white noise. Down the lane and across the road, the little white farmhouse glows like a storybook, porch light flickering on automatically with the dusk.
We kept it. Couldn’t bring ourselves to sell it. Too many memories for Hunter. Too much magic for Atticus and me. That property is sacred for more reasons than we could ever list.
“I feel like Reese would be an entertaining neighbor,” I say, sipping my wine.
Hunter sniffs. “You think she’d actually move here?”
“She’s been back four times this year alone. Last time she texted me a picture of a vintage rooster mailbox and said, ‘I get it now.’ So yeah. I think she might.”
“Cal’s lease is up in two months,” he says, glancing down at the house. “He needs a place.”
“Could be fun to watch,” I muse.
“Roommates?” he offers, smirking. “She’d eat him for breakfast.”
I laugh. “And he’d eat her for dessert.”
He raises his glass. “To morally questionable housing arrangements.”
I clink mine against his. “To front-row seats.”
Inside, the lodge is quiet. Atticus is fast asleep, his favorite stuffed pig tucked under one arm.
He spent the whole afternoon mowing waterways with Hunter in the 7600, and he’s already counting down the days until harvest. He wants to sit in the combine again.
Says driving is his favorite thing in the world.
We’ve yet to tell him about autosteer.
In a couple months, we’ll be living in the hum of combines, late autumn nights, and crop dust that settles like mist.
I’m ready for it.
“Dropped off some paperwork at Glenda’s office this afternoon,” Hunter says, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Saw Natalie’s shop sign was gone.”
I blink. “Gone?”
“Place looked closed. Display window was all cleared out.”
“Karma.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re vicious.”
“She’s still a miserable human being who tried to come between us. Forgive my lack of sympathy. I only hope with all this time she has on her hands now, she’ll have time to reflect on how to be a better person.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that.” Hunter finishes his wine and sets the glass on the railing. “Truitt also said there’s a rumor going around about Cole. His last ex-wife reopened their divorce settlement. Turns out he was hiding assets.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Local reporter did some digging. Got tipped off about shell companies he was using to buy land under fake names. Looks like he’s about to lose a big chunk of change. And now no one wants to work with him. He’s radioactive.”
I smirk. “Funny how that works.”
Hunter doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s thinking what I am. That people like Cole always think they’re untouchable—until they’re not.
“Ready for your book launch next week?” He changes the subject, and I’m grateful for it. I don’t like to linger too long in the past, not when I have so much to look forward to in the future.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I smile. “Mrs. Harrison’s book club is throwing me a launch party at the coffee shop. Did I tell you that?”
He grins. “That woman would throw you a parade if you asked.”
“I know. The whole town’s come around. Even the old guys at the feed store don’t call me ‘city girl’ anymore.”
“You’ve earned your place here. You had it once, just don’t let it go this time.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We finish our wine in silence, the breeze cooling and soft as the sun goes down. Eventually, we gather ourselves and head inside, turning off porch lights and locking up. The house is dim and quiet, wrapped in the kind of tranquility reserved for country nights like this.
I slip into my favorite silk pajamas, brush my teeth, and check on Atticus one last time. He’s still sound asleep, arms sprawled wide like he owns the world.
Back in our bedroom, I grab my notebook from the nightstand. A new sunflower one Hunter got me when I moved in, something to represent a new start.
I flip to a blank page and start writing—soft, slow words about a man with broad shoulders and a quiet heart.
Hunter walks in, towel slung over his shoulder, skin damp from the shower. He spots the notebook and narrows his eyes.
“You writing about me again?” he asks.
“When am I not?” I wink.
He crosses the room and leans down, lips brushing my temple. “Can I read it?”
“Someday,” I whisper.
He plucks the notebook from my hands, places it on the nightstand, clicks off my lamp, and climbs in beside me. Pulling me into his arms, he kisses me—long and sure and deep—the kind of kiss that makes my toes curl and my heart remember every reason I’m here.
In his arms, I fall asleep knowing I’ll never stop writing about him.
Because I used to write about love.
Now I live it.