Epilogue
TREY
T he chapel wasn’t fancy.
It wasn’t white marble with high ceilings or chandeliers that cost more than my truck.
It was small, wooden, and tucked into the edge of town like it had always belonged there, right between the pines and the road winding up toward the mountain.
The pews were full, reminding us that we were very, very loved.
And very, very lucky.
Lauryn was at the other end of the aisle, looking at me like she saw the rest of our lives.
I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life.
She wore a dress that floated when she walked, like a breeze was blowing through the chapel but only affecting her.
Her hair was twisted up, little loose curls brushing her cheek, and her eyes—those deep, brown eyes—never left mine.
I used to think love was quiet. Simple. Something that sat in your chest and made you feel warm now and then. But with Lauryn, it was so much more. It wrapped itself around me. I felt warm even when she wasn’t nearby, just knowing I had her love.
She reached the front and slid her hand into mine, and I swear the whole world stilled. I wanted to memorize the way her fingers curled between mine, how her smile wobbled right before she whispered, “Hi,” like this wasn’t the biggest moment of our lives. I wanted to remember every second forever.
Because we’d earned it.
We’d worked side by side for months, rebuilding the inn into something we were proud of.
She helped pick out furniture, light fixtures, and curtain rods like it mattered—and it did.
It wasn’t just an inn. It was my family’s business.
The place where we first saw each other.
The place where she now worked alongside my aunt every day.
I’d proposed right there in the bed of my truck, parked beneath the stars at the same drive-in where she gave me her first kiss.
The same night she gave me her first everything.
I’d laid out a blanket and packed a little basket of snacks she loved—half of which I forgot to take out of the grocery bag—and I was sweating through my shirt like a teenager.
She thought we were just watching some old black-and-white film projected on a plywood screen. But when I asked if she wanted to fast-forward to our happily ever after and pulled out the ring, she cried. Then she tackled me. I took that as a yes.
Now here we were, standing in front of our friends, who’d become our family, with Mackenzie in the front row grinning like she’d planned the royal wedding.
Bobbi sniffled loudly behind her tissue, muttering, “It’s about time” to no one in particular.
Logan had a crooked tie and a smirk, and even Blade—stone-faced as always—nodded once when we said I do.
I kissed her like she was oxygen. Like the last two years had all been leading to this one moment. And maybe they had.
We walked out into a flurry of flower petals and cheers, hand in hand, our faces aching from smiling. I helped her into my truck, which our friends had covered in Just Married decorations—streamers, glittery hearts, and about thirty tiny bells someone had zip-tied to the bumper.
She looked over at me, radiant and flushed. And then her hand landed on my thigh.
“Lauryn,” I said, aiming for stern, but it came out rough and low.
Her fingers slid a little higher. “Yes, husband?”
“Don’t say that like I won’t pull this truck over.”
She just grinned and leaned in, whispering, “Save it for the honeymoon?”
“Just a few more hours and you’re all mine.”
I kissed her once—deep and slow and probably too long for public consumption—then started the truck.
We were spending our wedding night in the inn’s new honeymoon suite.
She’d designed it herself. Soft linens, champagne glasses, oversized tub, and no one else allowed on that floor.
And tomorrow, we’d fly out to a tiny island with no cell service and nothing to do but exist in each other’s arms for seven straight days.
No one knew she was pregnant yet. It was our secret.
And I loved it. I loved that she was carrying the next chapter of our life in her body and that we got to keep it just ours for a little longer.
Every time her hand drifted to her stomach when no one was looking, I felt it—that surge of awe and protectiveness and disbelief that this was really my life.
We pulled into the gravel lot in front of the inn, the porch lights glowing golden in the dusk. Our friends—those hardheaded loggers, meddling matchmakers, and mountain misfits—would show up just behind us with their terrible dance moves and embarrassing stories.
Our family.
I parked but didn’t move. Lauryn leaned over the console and kissed me, soft and lingering, her fingers curled in my shirt like she never wanted to let go.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Never been readier.”
We stepped out of the truck and walked toward the inn, side by side, hands clasped tight. Somewhere behind us, the bells on the bumper jingled as the truck settled. And just before we entered the building, she looked up at me with that smile—the one that undid me every time.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
I squeezed her hand. “I know. And I love you more.”
Because I did. Every damn day. And I always would.