Epilogue
The dinner rush had thinned, but Hux was still in his booth.
He’d claimed that corner table the night we opened—champagne in hand, that crooked grin that had always undone me—and that had become his spot. Every night he wasn’t on call, right in my line of sight from the pass-through. A constant.
Tonight, our daughter sat across from him, curls flying as she attacked a bowl of mac and cheese with more enthusiasm than accuracy. Elsie had Hux’s appetite and my stubborn streak, which meant the table—and her face—were taking the brunt of it.
I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped out of the kitchen.
The restaurant was small—twelve tables, exposed brick, vintage firefighter gear on the walls—but it was mine.
Farm-to-table Southern food. Warm. Real.
The local paper called it the best date-night spot in the valley.
I’d once dreamed bigger, shinier. Instead, I’d built something better.
“Mama.” Elsie waved, cheese and all.
“Hey, baby.” I kissed her forehead, dodging the mess. “Food goes in your mouth.”
“She gets that from you,” Hux said. “Remember the flour incident?”
“That was one time.” I pressed a hand to my aching lower back. I was only four months pregnant, but these closing shifts were already brutal. “And you promised never to mention it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
He was watching me—the same way he always did. His gaze softened as it dropped to my belly. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I swallowed a bowling ball.” I kissed him, quick and sweet. “Two more tables.”
“I’ll be here.”
He always was.
An hour later, the last guests were gone. My parents had picked up a sleeping Elsie, and the kitchen was quiet. When I stepped into the dining room, the candles on Hux’s table were still lit.
“Everyone’s gone,” he said.
“I noticed.” I untied my apron as I walked toward him.
“You know,” he said, catching my hand, “we’ve never christened this table.”
I laughed. “We have a child. I’m pregnant. I think things have been christened.”
“Not here.” He pulled me into his lap. “Not where we built this.”
My breath caught—because four years in, he still knew exactly how to undo me.
“The candles are a nice touch,” I murmured.
“I’m a romantic.”
“You’re trouble.”
“You love it.”
I did.
His lips found mine, the kiss deep and hungry, like he’d been holding it back all night. His hand slid up my thigh without hesitation, fingers warm through the thick fabric of my pants, tracing higher until I felt that familiar spark ignite low in my belly.
I shifted against him, a deliberate wiggle that drew a low rumble from his chest. There—pressed against me—he was already hard, thick and insistent. A thrill shot through me, the kind that never dulled, no matter how many years we’d been together.
I pulled back just enough to glance around the empty dining room, the flickering candles casting shadows on the brick walls. I knew we were alone—everyone gone, doors locked—but the pretend risk made my pulse race. A naughty smile curved my lips as I slid off his lap and stood in front of him.
Slowly, I unbuttoned my blouse, one button at a time, watching his eyes darken. When I pulled it open, my breasts strained against the lace cups of my bra, practically spilling out, full and heavy from the pregnancy. He groaned, the sound raw and desperate.
“Come here,” he said, voice rough, reaching for me.
I stepped closer, and his hands were on my hips, unfastening my pants, then tugging those and my underwear down in one swift motion.
They pooled at my ankles as he pulled me between his legs.
His fingers found me instantly, sliding inside just the way I liked—slow at first, then curling, stroking that spot that made my knees buckle.
I threw my head back, a moan escaping as pleasure coiled tight.
“God, you’re so damn beautiful,” he murmured, eyes locked on my face like he couldn’t look away.
I kicked free of the clothes, naked from the waist down, and hoisted myself onto the table, spreading my legs for him.
He didn’t hesitate—his mouth was on me, hot and relentless, tongue circling and licking until I was gripping the edge of the table, gasping.
By then, I’d shoved one bra cup down, my hand cupping my breast, fingers teasing my nipple the way I knew drove him wild—the same way I’d touched myself that first time together five years ago.
The memory flashed hot, and so did I. My orgasm crashed over me, sharp and shattering, my cries echoing in the quiet room.
He rose as I came down, breathing hard, and I reached for him, fumbling with his belt and zipper. I shoved his pants and underwear down, freeing him—hard and ready. Looking up into his eyes, I took him in my mouth, slow and deep, savoring the taste of him and the way he throbbed against my tongue.
His fingers threaded through my hair, then drifted down to trace my exposed breast, thumb brushing my nipple.
I moaned around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath.
It felt so good—his touch, his groans—that my free hand slipped between my legs again, circling where I was still sensitive and slick.
He pulled away with a tortured groan, eyes wild. “Need you now.”
He positioned himself at my entrance, the thick head of him nudging against me, slick and hot from my mouth and my own arousal.
I looked down between us, watching as he guided himself in, that slow, deliberate slide stretching me open inch by inch until he filled me completely.
One long, perfect thrust that made me gasp at the sudden fullness, the way he hit every sensitive spot inside me like he’d memorized them years ago.
His face was pure hunger—jaw clenched, eyes dark and locked on mine, that flush high on his cheeks that only showed when he was losing control.
A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as he bottomed out, the sound echoing off the empty brick walls, mixing with the distant hum of the kitchen cooler.
The table creaked beneath us as he started moving, slamming into me with that perfect, relentless rhythm we’d found together so long ago—deep, hard strokes that rocked my whole body.
Each thrust sent a jolt through me, the wood groaning in protest, candles flickering wildly in their glass holders, throwing dancing shadows across his broad shoulders and the sweat starting to sheen along his collarbone.
His hand dropped between us, fingers finding my clit with unerring accuracy, rubbing in tight, firm circles that matched his pace. I couldn’t look away from him—the way his lips parted on every ragged breath, the soft curses he muttered under his breath.
“Fuck, baby…so good…”
Pleasure coiled tighter and faster than I expected, overwhelming, every nerve alert. I arched up to meet him, and when I came the second time, it was sharper, deeper—waves crashing through me as I clenched hard around him, crying out his name into the empty room.
He followed right after, a broken groan rumbling from his chest as his release hit—hot and pulsing deep inside me, his hips jerking erratically as we rode it out, trembling, tangled.
We stayed like that for a long moment, breathless and spent, hearts pounding in sync.
Later, we drove home through quiet streets as snow drifted through the headlights—the first real snowfall of the season. It reminded me of the storm that started everything.
The cabin was warm, the fire still glowing. I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the couch, exhausted and full in the best possible way.
Hux sat beside me, his hand settling over my belly. The baby kicked. He smiled.
“Still glad you stayed?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate. I never did.
“Every single day.”
He pulled me closer, lips brushing my temple. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me now.”
I tilted my face up to kiss him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”