Epilogue
Katy
Eight months later
The first real snow of the season arrived overnight, blanketing the ridge in thick, perfect white.
I wake to the soft hush of it outside the bedroom window and the even warmer weight of Nathan curled around me from behind, one heavy arm draped across my waist, his breath steady against my neck.
The cabin is quiet except for the low crackle of the fire we left burning low in the living room and Bear’s occasional snuffle from his bed by the hearth.
Everything smells like pine, cedar smoke, and us.
I shift carefully so I don’t wake him, turning in his arms until we’re face-to-face.
His beard is a little longer now, threaded with the tiniest hints of silver at the edges that make my heart do stupid things every time I notice them.
His eyes are still closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted in sleep. He looks peaceful. Happy.
I trace the line of his jaw with one fingertip, light enough that he doesn’t stir. Eight months. Eight months since that first drink at the Rusty Pine, since the night he carried me to this very bed and showed me what it feels like to be wanted so completely it steals your breath.
Eight months, and I still wake up every morning thinking, This is too good to be real. And every morning he opens his eyes, sees me, and smiles that small, real smile that says, It is.
I lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth. Soft. Barely there.
His arm tightens reflexively. A low rumble vibrates through his chest.
“Morning, sunshine,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“Morning, mountain man.” I kiss him again, properly this time, slow, lingering, tasting the faint trace of last night’s whiskey on his tongue.
He rolls me beneath him in one smooth motion, settling his weight between my thighs, forearms braced on either side of my head. The blanket slips down to our waists. His skin is hot against mine, solid and familiar.
“Thought you were gonna let me sleep,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I changed my mind.” I slide my hands up his back, nails dragging lightly down the muscles that flex under my touch. “You’re too pretty when you’re asleep. It’s distracting.”
He chuckles, the sound that still makes my stomach flip every time. “Pretty, huh?”
“Devastatingly handsome,” I correct, arching up to kiss his throat. “Ruin-my-life handsome.”
“Good.” He lowers his head, kisses the sensitive spot beneath my ear, then lower, along my collarbone. “Because you’ve ruined me.”
His mouth moves down my body with the same patient reverence he’s shown me every single time we’ve touched since that first night.
He kisses the hollow of my throat, the swell of my breasts, the soft curve of my stomach.
When he reaches the place where my thighs meet, he looks up at me, his eyes dark, hungry, full of love.
“Lift your hips,” he says quietly.
I do. He slides my sleep shorts and panties down in one slow drag, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he settles between my legs, shoulders spreading me wide, and puts his mouth on me.
The first slow lick makes me gasp. The second makes me moan.
He takes his time, with long, deliberate strokes of his tongue, circling my clit, then dipping lower to taste every inch of me.
One thick finger slides inside, then two, curling up to stroke that spot that makes my toes curl.
I thread my fingers through his hair, hips rocking against his face, chasing the pleasure he’s so good at giving me.
When I come, it’s sudden and shattering, my back arching off the mattress, his name torn from my throat in a broken cry. He works me through every pulse, every aftershock, until I’m trembling, boneless, tugging weakly at his shoulders.
He crawls back up my body, kissing every place he passes, until he’s hovering over me again. His mouth is shiny with me. His eyes are burning.
“I love you,” he says, like it’s the most important thing he’ll say all day.
“I love you too.” I reach between us, wrap my hand around him—he’s thick, hard, ready—and guide him to my entrance. “Now show me.”
He pushes in on one long, slow thrust. We both groan at the stretch, the fullness, the perfect way he fits inside me. He holds still for a heartbeat, letting me adjust, then starts to move with deep, rolling strokes that make me sigh every time he bottoms out.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. He kisses me while his hips snap harder, faster. The headboard thumps the wall. My nails rake down his back. We’re both panting, sweating, lost in each other.
When he feels me tightening again, he slips a hand between us, thumb circling my clit in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.
“Come,” he growls against my mouth.
I do.
I shatter around him, pulsing, clenching, crying out his name. He follows right after, hips slamming deep one last time, groaning my name into my neck as he spills inside me, hot and endless.
We collapse together, tangled and breathless, hearts hammering in tandem.
After a long minute, he lifts his head, brushes damp curls from my forehead, and kisses me softly.
“Marry me,” he says.
My heart stops.
I blink up at him. “What?”
He reaches under the pillow and pulls out a small velvet box. Inside is a simple gold band with a small diamond flanked by tiny etched suns and mountains.
“I’ve been carrying this for weeks,” he admits, voice rough with emotion. “Waiting for the right moment. Turns out the right moment is every moment with you. Marry me, Katy Moore. Be my wife. Fill this cabin with your laugh and your sunshine and your chaos for the rest of our lives.”
Tears spill over before I can stop them. Happy ones. Overwhelming ones.
“Yes,” I whisper. Then louder, laughing through the tears: “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”
He slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be there.
Then he kisses me, deep, joyful, and full of everything we’ve built in these eight months. When we finally part, I’m still crying and laughing at the same time.
“You planned this?” I ask, staring at the ring in wonder.
“Well, I didn’t plan to ask you in bed.” He grins full, real, unguarded.
I pull him down for another kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He rests his forehead against mine. “Always have. Always will.”
Bear chooses that moment to leap onto the bed, landing between us with a dramatic huff, tail wagging like he knows something big just happened.
We both laugh—loud, bright, happy.
The rest of the day is perfect.
We stay in bed for another hour, making love again, slow this time, savoring every touch, every whispered I love you. We finally drag ourselves out of bed, make coffee, and cook breakfast.
We walk outside in the new snow, hand in hand, Bear bounding ahead. We come back inside flushed and cold, strip each other slowly, and tumble back into bed because we can.
Because we’re engaged.
Because we’re us.
Months ago, I walked into The Rusty Pine expecting cocktails and gossip.
Instead, I found the man who will become my husband. The grump who became my home. And every single day since has been better than the last.