Epilogue Can’t Help Falling in Love
Epilogue: Can’t Help Falling in Love - Kina Grannis
Wynter
If you’re gonna fall in love, Hawaii’s the place to do it.
Golden hour melts over the Pacific. Leis brush soft against my collarbones. Salt air keeps flirting with my dress. But let me catch you up, because the last time you saw these two?
They were finally getting it together.
And by “getting it together,” I mean: feelings confessed and pride swallowed and a level of emotional vulnerability that frankly made me uncomfortable. Anyway.
They figured it out.
And then they did what people do when they finally stop playing themselves—
They stayed.
No dramatic exits. No “maybe this isn’t the right time.” No more of that almost energy. Just… consistency.
Which, if you’ve been paying attention, is actually the rarest thing in this entire story. August moved different.
Like—intentional intentional. Opened a boutique agency out in L.A. Fifty employees, California sun, the whole glossy dream.
And Harlee?
Thriving-thriving.
Promotion in a year. Talking about signing Jahari Combs from the LA Devils.
Jahari Combs…
Now that is a man.
But I digress.
Point is?
They’re solid.
Annoyingly so.
The kind of solid where you stop questioning it because there’s nothing left to question. And now here we are.
Maui.
Champagne flowing, ocean showing off, and my girl standing ten toes down in love like she didn’t spend months acting brand new.
We’re here for a wedding.
Not mine—relax.
Not Harlee’s either.
This is about Loridonna finally locking down her fine-ass nurse.
(And yes, I take partial credit. You’re welcome.)
The wedding is insane. The eye candy is illegal. And they flew in a whole band just to back me up.
As they should.
As I adjust the girls in my slate blue lace number, staring out at a view that looks fake enough to be AI-generated, I ask myself the real question:
“Why would anyone leave paradise for Chicago? Because for real who do I gotta screw to wake up to this for a few months?”
From the toilet, Harlee deadpans, “You wouldn’t.”
I scoff, giving myself one last look in the mirror. “Have you met me? I’d climb that tree of muscle they call Lori’s uncle faster than you can say aloha.”
“Wynn!” Harlee gasps, eyes wide like she just saw a ghost… or the size of my paycheck.
“What?” I shrug, snapping a selfie. “I’m single, no plus-one, and if that left hand’s ringless, he’s fair game.”
Harlee rolls her eyes. “You are something else.”
I flash my trouble-saving smile. “That’s why you love me.”
She’s wrestling her jumpsuit like it personally offended her while I’m busy serving looks. “I love you,” she huffs, yanking the zipper, “just not enough to support you hooking up with Lori’s uncle. He could be your father.”
“He’s not my father,” I smirk. “But he could be my daddy.”
Another eye roll. “I can’t take you anywhere. Help me with this zipper before I pee myself.”
“Rude.” I clutch my chest. “I just serenaded an entire wedding with a ukulele.”
Her glare softens into defeat. I step in, shoo her hands away. “Relax. Savior of weddings at your service.”
“Your ego?” she mutters.
“Please. I fixed the floral crown, saved the flower girl, and now—this.” I tug the zipper while she elbows me trying to look.
“Hold still,” I yelp. “Stretch Armstrong.”
She pouts. “You’re great with kids. You sure you don’t want one?”
I freeze. “If you’re pregnant, I’m punching you in the right tit.”
“I’m not!” She laughs. “I just don’t get how you don’t want one.”
“Not everyone wants to be a mama. Also, men.”
She sighs. “Fair.”
“You’re just confirming I’ll be the hot, drunk aunt to you and Big D’s future baby. Far future.”
“I’m 27,” she says. “And we’re not even married.”
I give her a look. “He adores you. Man’s been trying to lock it down.”
She spins toward me, panicked. “Did August say something?”
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “I know you overthink. And I know nothing. Relax, boo.”
Her shoulders drop like someone finally cut the power to her panic. “Oh, thank God.” She exhales. “I’m not ready. And he’s been… weird. Asking about scones. And what kind of head I like. That’s too much attention, right? He wouldn’t do anything big. He knows I hate that. Right?”
She spirals, words tripping over each other, and I just smirk. Oh, honey. If only you knew.
“Right…” I say, still fighting the zipper. “Do what, exactly?”
“Propose!” she whisper-shrieks, eyes huge. “At Lori’s wedding. You know I said that’s tacky as hell. He wouldn’t… would he?”
I roll my eyes. “Relax. If Big D were gonna propose, he wouldn’t do it in front of two hundred strangers. Now stop squirming before I set you free. All that sneaking around and you can’t even escape your jumpsuit.”
“I have not,” she lies.
I give her my patented you-lying stare.
She caves. “Okay, fine. But I’ve also been stress eating. Big clients. Too many carbs.”
“Mmhmm,” I hum, giving the zipper one final tug. “This better be carbs, because I’m not ready to be Auntie Wynter. There. Free. You just caught fabric. Probably when August helped you back into this after that quickie.”
Her cheeks flare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please. He’s relaxed, you’re glowing. Nice try.”
“Let me pee in peace,” she snaps, shooing me.
“Who’s judging?” I grin, fixing my lip. “I’m just grateful I haven’t had to hear a live performance while I’m trying to sleep. And thanks for the villa—I may have a song on the radio, but I’m not swimming in billionaire money.”
She grins at me in the mirror. “Who said we refrained? We got creative.”
I cackle. “Lord, give me strength,” I mutter, proud anyway.
Once she’s done and polished, we head back out. The breeze smells like plumeria and salt, and I’m already feeling smug—I’ve got another song to slay.
Inside, the band fades, champagne clinks, and Lori and Keoni sway on the dance floor like a magazine spread come to life. I step onto the stage, mic cool in my hand, and sing “Come Away With Me,” watching them disappear into each other.
Sickeningly sweet.
And somehow, it still gets me.
After I finish “Over the Rainbow” for Keoni’s mom—zero dry eyes, I’m just saying—I head back to the table, throat dry and priorities set: champagne.
There are a few familiar James Wilde Media faces mixed in with wedding randos. I drop into my seat and lift my flute.
“Well, if it isn’t the man, the myth, the nuisance—Kelley Wilde. They let you in without supervision again?”
He smirks like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be. “Please. I’m part of the package now. You get them”—he nods toward the dance floor, where Harlee’s wrapped up in August—“you get me.”
I snort. “That feels like a design flaw.”
“You love it,” he shoots back, too quick.
I take a sip, unimpressed. “I tolerate it.”
His gaze drags, slow and deliberate, like he’s taking inventory. “Couldn’t miss you in your element. That voice?” A beat. “Still magic.”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve used that one before.”
“And you didn’t hate it,” he says easily.
“Debatable.”
He leans back, settling in like he knows this rhythm, like we’ve done this too many times to pretend otherwise. Because we have. Group dinners. After-parties. Weekends that turn into stories we don’t fully tell.
Same Kelley. Same problem.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask, casual enough to pass.
“Wherever they are,” he shrugs. “But tonight? Lori’s family.”
His eyes linger—just long enough to feel intentional.
I let it. Just for a second.
Then I break first, dragging my attention back to the table before it can mean anything.
One of the James Wilde guys launches into a corporate story—Brad? Chad?—and I nod at the right moments while scanning the dance floor for Harlee, who’s been swallowed by bridesmaid duty. I’m two seconds from faking a bathroom emergency when hands land on my shoulders.
“You good, Wyn?” Harlee asks, blessed relief in human form.
“Free booze?” I sip. “Thriving.”
August appears behind her, arms wrapping her waist, kisses dropped like punctuation. They’re so sweet it’s almost offensive.
“I’m all yours,” Harlee says. “Both of you.”
“I’m great now,” August murmurs into her neck.
I gag. “You know I’m your best friend, right? The one you haven’t seen in three months. What’s he got that I don’t?”
Harlee grins. “A big—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, draining my glass and flagging a server for something stronger.
She laughs, tries to sit, and August pulls her into his lap. Teenagers. Prom energy.
“So,” he says, tugging her closer, “does that mean you’ll finally dance with me?”
“In a minute,” Harlee says, squeezing my hand. “Best friend duties first.” She beams at me. “Zero dry eyes during the procession. You killed it.”
I preen, then shrug. “Lori’s the knockout. Did she make that dress?”
“Custom,” Harlee says.
August nods, and we all watch Lori and Keoni on the dance floor, surrounded by kids breakdancing while Lori attempts the worm in couture. We lose it.
“So cute.” Harlee sighs.
“So are you,” August murmurs, and yep—PDA. I clear my throat. “Lovebirds. Please. Some of us are trying to drink without witnessing soft-core porn.”
Harlee blushes. August grins. I roll my eyes, then lift my glass. “To the happy couple. And to us—good booze, great tunes, and friends who tolerate our bullshit.”
Champagne buzzed, I scan the room. Wedding perks? Immaculate. Dating prospects? A desert. Married men, geriatrics, and boys who still need their mamas. I count options on my fingers, run out, and groan. “This is bleak.”
I think about last night’s beach makeout—hot, sandy, done—and sip again, considering something stronger.
“Get a room,” Kelley slurs, all cologne and whiskey.
Kelley Wilde: charming, smug, magnetic. The kind you want to hate and kiss in the same breath. He wants me. Of course he does. I like attention. I just don’t like men who think they can have whatever they want.
He’s a Bratz doll. I’m more GI Joe—rough edges, bad decisions, great stories. Adrenaline junkie. Fun for the tryst. Fuel for a song.
And somehow, here he is.