Second Epilogue
Nash
Five Years Later
The baby’s eating snow again.
Not the fresh kind either—the weird gray slush clumped near the bait bucket. I think it’s mostly minnows and dirt. I make a mental note to Google “effects of river ice on toddler digestion” later.
“Mack, don’t lick the fishing pole,” I bark, not looking up from the tangled line I’m re-threading for our middle kid. “Hooks don’t taste like popsicles, bud.”
He giggles.
Which means he already licked it.
“Did you hear what your son just said?” Noel calls from behind me.
Your son.
She only ever says that when someone’s about to get grounded or end up in the ER.
I glance over my shoulder.
Our oldest, Jack—named after Noel’s father—is building what appears to be a snowwoman with boobs. Real shapely ones. Strategic icicles. A pinecone bikini top.
Noel raises her eyebrows. “I see your decorating style has rubbed off.”
I smirk. “Gotta teach ’em young.”
She trudges closer, heat-warmed boots crunching over the ice, cocoa thermos in one hand and our youngest balanced on her hip like it’s nothing.
Five years and three kids later, and I still get winded when I look at her.
Maybe it’s the snow-glow. The wild curls tucked under her knit beanie. The smear of red lipstick she insists on wearing even when we’re ice fishing.
Or maybe it’s the part where my brain short-circuits every time she bends over in those damn red leggings.
Either way—
I’d marry her all over again. Right here on the Phantom River. Shirtless. In minus-fifteen windchill.
“You’re staring,” she says, eyes narrowed.
“You’re bending.”
She grins. “Thinking dirty Christmas thoughts again, sugar daddy?”
“Always.”
Her lips part. She leans in. The wind howls. The kids scream. The dog leaps across the hole and lands in the bait bucket.
Chaos.
And it’s perfect.
Noel slides onto the cooler beside me, stealing half my lap and all of my warmth.
I don't mind.
Her body fits mine like a puzzle I didn’t know was missing a piece.
"How many fish we caught?" she asks, resting her chin on my shoulder.
"Three. One was suicidal. The others were too dumb to know better."
"Sounds like the beginning of a love story."
I snort. "You calling me a dumb fish?"
"I'm calling myself irresistible bait."
I wrap my arm around her waist. "You’re not wrong."
She hums, pressing a kiss to the underside of my jaw. “You realize you’re still shirtless, right?”
“It’s branding.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s working.” I nod toward the Hollis & Hearth banner set up by the dock. “Guest bookings are up forty percent since I started chopping wood in cargo pants on the website homepage.”
She groans. “I married a himbo.”
“You married a man who smells like cedar and makes you cum six ways from Christmas.”
Her cheeks flush. “Still cocky, huh?”
“Still cocked.”
She chokes on a laugh, slapping my thigh. “There are children present.”
“The same children who asked this morning if babies come from a snowdrift and a mistletoe kiss.”
“That’s your fault.”
“You kissed me under that damn mistletoe.”
“And you knocked me up in a hot tub.”
“Best New Year’s ever.”
She sighs, resting her head against my shoulder again. “God, we’re disgusting.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
The sun dips behind the ridge, casting everything in blue and silver. The kids run wild, chasing the dog across the riverbank. Mack’s got a fish on a string and is trying to convince Jack it’s their new pet. The baby’s eating more snow.
I slide my hand over Noel’s knee, under her parka. She gives me a look. One I know well.
Don’t start what you can’t finish, Hollis.
But I always finish.
And I always start.
"Let’s leave the kids with Margie tonight," I murmur, mouth brushing her ear. "Take you to the cedar cabin. Build a fire. Strip you slow. Watch that belly bounce while you ride me like the queen of Christmas."
Her breath catches.
I grin.
Still got it.
She turns her head. Kisses me soft. Full of everything we’ve built.
Love. Lust. Mayhem.
And more glitter than any self-respecting man should admit lives in his beard.
“Happy New Year, Nash Hollis,” she whispers.
“Happy always, Noel Hollis.”
Because it’s not just a holiday anymore.
It’s our life.
Loud. Messy. Feral.
Perfect.
The End