Epilogue
Honestly, I love my husband.
Mirabelle
Six months later, wedding reception
Where do you see yourself in five years?
I’ve always hated that question. It’s stupid. It’s wishful. It involves planning in an uncertain, uncontrollable world. It invites disappointment. And, furthermore, it’s just plain annoying.
To say I was starkly unprepared to receive it at my wedding is an understatement, and if I’m being honest—which I usually am—I believe it’s coming from the very man who has been making a living off selling lies and candid photos of Damion and me this whole time.
That is to say, I did not invite him, and I doubt Fawn did, given that she’s been very busy battling Damion’s best man to the death any chance she gets.
I’d admire the guy’s nerve, if I weren’t so annoyed right now.
Nose scrunched, I stare at the strange loser with a camera who is attempting to get an interview out of me at this private event.
Where do I see myself in five years?
Easy. Simple.
I want to be at home.
With my loving husband.
And our two future children.
I want to enjoy Friday nights with the guys who didn’t have a major crash out in Publix when they learned I was getting married.
I want to go to my book clubs. I want to bake and homemake and dote on my precious little family.
I think I’d even like to try dressing up as Batwoman and going to a hospital or two.
…I do not want to answer an interview question on my wedding day.
Fortunately, Forrest sees my expression of abject disgust halfway across the venue and has the guy by the arm in a millisecond. “What seems to be the problem, Belly-belle?” he asks.
I say, “I don’t know this guy, and he’s asking me stupid questions.”
Forrest tuts. “What kind of stupid questions?”
“Where do I see myself in five years.”
“Ew.”
“I was just—” the man protests.
Forrest turns on his heel, dragging the man off with him. “No one cares. You want to know where she sees herself in five years? I’ll tell you. Nowhere near you.”
I giggle until arms close in around me from behind, and hot breath settles against my neck. “Mirabelle,” Damion murmurs, “I am going to die if we need to stay here a minute longer.”
Every inch of my body heats.
“I keep getting stuck in conversations and congratulations. Finn and Marci want you to join our Stardew farm. Leslie is wondering if you’d like an Amare sponsorship, since you’re so cute and she thinks it’d be great for her brand.
Fawn keeps threatening to eat Levi and Rose’s kid.
” He deflates, weight settling into me. “Please. I can’t take it anymore.
The people are so…people. The wedding kiss was too short. ”
It was a solid three minutes, up until the point I remembered my parents were watching and my lungs were burning for air and I…
Yeah. It wasn’t nearly long enough.
“I’m withering,” he mutters. “Whoever planned weddings and receptions was an idiot. Get married. Get home.” His arms flex at my midsection. “Indulge.”
That sounds wonderful.
I say, “But we haven’t even—”
He groans.
“Damion…”
He moans, pitiful. Because, I have learned over these past few months, that my big, strong, imposing man is so very soft. For me. Specifically. For others…not so much. He nearly punched Jeffry into the sushi section at Publix when he started throwing a fit upon learning of our impending nuptials.
Violently protective, preciously gentle, perfectly mine.
“I love you, Damion,” I whisper, lifting my hand to cup his face so I can kiss his cheek.
His lips mutter against my throat, “I love you more.”
As he should.
“Please.” He nips. “Put me out of my misery.”
I sigh. “You wanna find a closet somewhere?”
His muscles revolt, and he unravels, spinning me. Glaring, he searches my smile, then he lifts a brow, then he bends.
I squeak when he tosses me up over his shoulder, about-faces, and marches toward the exit. “Damion!” I pound against his back. “I was joking!”
“I know.”
“Put me down! I want to meet more of your friends! We need to coordinate when we’re going to play Stardew!”
“They’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Damion,” I whine, as though I’ve never been made to feel annoying before in my life.
Merciless, he takes me right out, into the hall, dumps me on my feet, pins me to the wall, and lifts my chin in his palm. The smile after he’s finished studying my lips is positively feral, and I don’t think I have it in me to protest anymore.
“Your lipstick’s smudged,” he grumbles. “And it’s my fault.”
My heart trips. “Yeah, it is.”
“I need a picture.”
Graciously, in that exact moment, a camera flashes.
Damion and I blink, turning toward the window where the guy Forrest tossed out seems to have scurried off to.
Damion snorts first, then huge laughs pour out of him, infecting me. Falling into him and vibrating, I say, “Lucky us.”
“It doesn’t bother you at all anymore?” he asks, fighting to collect himself.
Humming, I adjust his lapels and smile. “No. I have the truth right here. In front of me. And inside me. It’s warm, and real, and other people can think whatever they want, because it changes nothing. I am who I am, and we are what we are. Whoever can’t see that isn’t worth my time.”
Moving in, Damion’s lips tease mine, and a moment before he kisses me, he murmurs, “Well said.”
As I glide gently into the stable love my husband offers, I can truthfully say I’m so glad that this is the life of rich twenty-six-year-old Mirabelle Anders.
Because, to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t be happier.