Epilogue – Wrenley
Saint’s golf ball hits the clown’s nose. The colorful statue lets out a wheezy honk and spits a jet of water directly into Saint’s face.
“That’s it,” he says flatly. “I’m burning this place to the ground.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, holding back a laugh, but then he drags the hem of his shirt up to wipe his face, and I’m gifted with his inked, washboard abs.
“Exhibitionism isn’t going to improve your score,” Rome drawls from behind us, tipping his cowboy hat. “Though I appreciate the show.”
“You can’t arson your way out of losing,” I add, lips twitching as I wind my arms around Saint’s waist and tip my head up.
“I absolutely can.” He presses our chests together, hands bracketing my hips. “But are you going to keep looking at me like that every time I embarrass myself in public?”
“Only if you keep letting me win.”
“ Cherie , I have never let you win. ”
“Liar.”
“Ask anyone,” he says, pressing his mouth to my temple. “I’m pathologically competitive. Except with you. With you, I’d lose on purpose if it meant you’d smile like that again.”
Noa wolf-whistles from the next hole.
“Oh, good,” she calls. “I was worried this date wasn’t going to include a strip show.”
“Keep talking,” Saint says without looking at her. “You’ll be next in line when the clown catches fire.”
“I live for threats,” Noa retorts with a grin, tossing her ball into the mouth of a giant plastic shark while Stone stands beside her pretending this is normal. He flew in an hour ago and is still dressed in his designer suit.
Stone takes his first swing, sending the ball careening off the edge of the pirate ship. It ricochets, misses the green entirely, and lands in a decorative moat. He regards the situation with folded arms.
“That tracks,” he says.
Noa hooks her arm through his and kisses his cheek, and both of them appear genuinely delighted with each other.
While they’re canoodling, Rome steps onto the last green, lines up, and taps the ball in without breaking stride.
He turns, stretches his arms over his head, and says, “I’m done. Someone hand me a drink.”
“You’re not even going to ask your score?” Noa asks.
“I already know I won,” Rome replies, grabbing the beer Stone hands him and taking a long pull.
Saint mutters next to me, “God help the woman who ends up with that one.”
I laugh and elbow him playfully. “That can be said about all three of you men.”
Rome’s date finally emerges from the snack bar, all legs and sequined top that catches the mini golf course’s carnival lights. She’s his third this month. Or maybe fourth, I’ve lost count.
She munches on popcorn while pressing herself against his side.
“Anyone keeping score?” she asks.
“Only the losers,” Rome says with a wink, his arm sliding around her waist. “Winners focus on more important things.” His fingers brush against the exposed skin of her midriff, and she giggles.
Saint rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re drenched,” Rome counters. “Seems like the clown made its choice.”
I grab Saint’s putter before he can weaponize it. “How about we finish this round and head to dinner? I’m starving.”
“Good idea,” Noa says, hooking her arm through Stone’s. “Stone’s jet lag is hitting, and I promised him decent food if he went on this triple-date.”
I stifle another smile. Noa took her double-date threat and multiplied it, adding Rome and his flavor of the week solely to irritate Saint. She got my stamp of approval because Saint’s grumpiness is my favorite kind of foreplay.
I lean into Saint’s side, savoring his warmth in the cool evening air on the last day of fall.
It hits me that I have no plans to move back to the city.
Falcon Haven is my home. This is my new life, surrounded by real friends and loved by a man who once scowled at the very idea of a happily ever after.
I don’t think I’ve grinned around a bunch of people as much as I have with this group, and while my cheek muscles ache, I love every minute of it.
We’d taken Ivy to the yearly carnival earlier in the day, then decided to come back at night for some adult time. About a month ago, we found and hired a new nanny, Francine. So far, she’s great at handling both Ivy and Saint .
“I wish you could film Saint,” Noa says to me as she breaks away from Stone and walks up to us. “The look on his face when that clown sprayed him would have broken the internet. Again.”
“Absolutely not,” Saint says, steering me toward the exit. “My humiliation is not for public consumption.”
There’s no real heat in his response. He’s gotten used to the idea that parts of my life will end up online, though he still draws hard lines around Ivy and himself, which I respect.
“What about a cooking challenge?” Rome suggests, his date now perched on his hip like a glamorous accessory. “Saint versus Stone. Battle of the millionaires.”
Stone looks horrified. “I don’t cook. Ask Noa. I have people for that.”
“Yes, he only joined me in the kitchen initially to get into my pants,” Noa says, yelping when Stone pokes her side.
“It worked, though,” he says, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head.
Rome’s date giggles at their banter. I think her name is Amber? Scarlett? She pulls at his arm, pointing toward the Ferris wheel. I still can’t place her name, but her bouncing breasts suggest she really wants on that ride.
“I’m starving,” Stone announces, loosening his tie. “Please tell me Maisy’s still running the barbecue stand.”
“Same spot as always,” Saint confirms.
Though he wouldn’t be caught dead running a food stand at a carnival, the only reason I was able to drag him back here after dropping off Ivy was the promise of Maisy’s home cooking and the line of food trucks that drive into town specifically for the carnival.
He plans to taste everything on offer and I’m more than happy to sample every bite of what he wants to feed me.
I pull out my phone to check on Ivy. Francine has sent a photo of four girls in a living room that looks like a craft store exploded.
Glue sticks, construction paper, and what might be an entire bag of sequins cover every surface.
Ivy’s expanded her friend group in the month since Saint and I have been together, finding other kids with a passion for art.
Francine encourages the mess, then makes them all clean it up. It’s the best of both worlds.
“Art project or natural disaster?” Saint asks, looking over my shoulder.
“With Ivy? Both.”
“Carly!”
Noa’s shout cuts through the carnival noise. I turn to see a tall, beautiful woman with red hair near the entrance, phone pressed to one ear, finger in the other, trying to hear over the music. She’s picking her way across the grass in a navy suit and heels that keep sinking into the earth.
Rome goes very still in my periphery.
“Is that a friend of yours?” his date asks, following his gaze.
“Something like that,” he responds.
Carly pockets her phone and looks up, spotting our group. Her shoulders relax, though her eyes narrow at the sight of Rome’s arm draped around his date.
“There you are,” she calls, striding toward us with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how good they look in a tight-fitting pantsuit. “Sorry I’m late. Client crisis.”
“Sounds traumatic,” Rome drawls, but his study lingers on her, tracking her movements with interest.
From what I understand, Carly, Noa, Rome, and Stone all grew up together here in Falcon Haven. They share a history that even Saint’s glare can’t cut through, and they’ve never given us the full story of their shared childhoods.
“Never traumatic enough to affect my billable hours,” Carly quips, stopping in front of us. “Stone. You’re back from London. Still pretending to be human?”
Stone’s mouth quirks. “Carly. Still pretending to be pleasant?”
“Only on special occasions.” She kisses his cheek, then hugs Noa. “Thanks for the invite. I needed an excuse to escape my inbox.”
Rome’s date shifts, clearly sensing the change in dynamic.
“Hey, Red,” Rome says. “Didn’t know you were joining us.”
“Last-minute edition,” Carly replies. “Noa insisted I needed fresh air and fried food.”
She extends a hand to Rome’s date. “Carly Westbrook.”
“Violet,” the woman responds, shaking Carly’s hand with a tight smile.
Violet removes her hand and re-wraps it around Rome’s arm, her mouth now strained at the corners.
“We were just heading to get food,” I say, breaking the tension before it can solidify. “Want to join?”
“Absolutely,” Carly confirms, falling into step beside Noa as our group moves toward the food trucks. She leans in, her voice dropping, “I see Rome’s almost done making his way through the alphabet.”
Nudging her, Noa says, “Don’t be mean. He’s lonelier than he looks.”
Carly snorts. “Oh, please.”
Violet keeps tugging on Rome’s sleeve, asking to ride the Ferris wheel with him, but his attention doesn’t stray from Carly, who orders the brisket platter and a beer from Maisy.
“Victory meal,” she explains to me as Saint places our order between asking Maisy about her latest shipment of mangoes. “Just destroyed opposing counsel in court today. His client’s paying my client’s legal fees and my bonus vacation to Cabo.”
“Ruthless,” Stone says approvingly.
Carly catches Rome staring. “Problem?”
“Just wondering when you got so bloodthirsty.”
“Law school. Turns out I’m good at making grown men cry.”
“I bet you are,” Rome says, but it’s not with his usual easy charm.
She gives Rome the side-eye. “Why are you staring at me eating carnival food?”
“Maybe I like watching you eat.”
“That’s creepy, Rome.”
“Everything I do is creepy to you, Red.”
“Not everything.” She finishes her corn dog and reaches for a funnel cake. “Your ranch expansion was smart. Risky, but smart.”
“You’ve been paying attention to my business?”
“I pay attention to everything. It’s my job. Speaking of, you might want to get a lawyer.”
“Are you volunteering?”
“I don’t do small-town legal work. Too boring.”
“I’m not boring.”
“No,” Carly says, chewing slowly and then swallowing. “You’re not.”
The rest of us look on, our gazes ping-ponging between the two of them until Violet whines, “Can we please go, already? The Ferris wheel line is finally short.”
“Your wish,” Rome says, peeling his attention away from Carly to wink at his date. “Though I know another ride I’d prefer.”
“We’ll catch up with you later,” Violet says to us, backing away and pulling Rome with her. “Save us some food? ”
Rome tips his hat at us before spinning on his heel. “Don’t wait up.”
Carly watches them go, a chunk of brisket growing cold on her fork.
“Fifty says they don’t make it past the cotton candy stand,” Saint muses, and I poke him in the ribs, giving him a look that says now is not the time.
Saint gives me a one-sided smile that tells me he knows exactly what shit he’s disturbing.
“Come on,” Saint says, his hand sliding down to intertwine with mine. “I saw a Korean fusion truck. I haven’t had good bulgogi in months.”
I let him pull me toward the trucks, grateful for the excuse to have him to myself. He orders for both of us: bulgogi tacos, kimchi fried rice, something with gochujang that makes my mouth water just watching him negotiate with the chef about spice levels.
“Here,” he says, holding a taco to my lips. “Try this.”
I take a bite, and the flavors explode on my tongue—sweet, salt, spice, and citrus.
He feeds me another bite, his thumb catching a drop of sauce at the corner of my mouth. The simple touch sends heat spiraling through me.
Saint notices the way it rises into my eyes. “Time to go home.”
I drag him toward the parking lot, but Saint has other plans, tugging me behind a row of game booths where the carnival lights cast bright colors across his face. He backs me against the wooden wall, caging me in with his arms.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?” he murmurs.
“Only twice,” I whisper back, winding my arms around his neck. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing it again. ”
His lips brush against my temple. “Beautiful. Radiant. Mine.”
My heart flutters as he captures my mouth, stealing my breath with a kiss that makes me forget we’re in public. The world narrows to Saint’s hands on my waist, his taste on my tongue, the solid warmth of him pressing me against the booth.
Saint pulls back gently, his arms sliding around my shoulders and his forehead resting against mine. “You’re happy?”
“Deliriously,” I say, brushing my nose against his. “Though I’m still convinced you let me win at mini golf.”
He exhales against my skin, the kind of release that only happens when everything is finally okay.
“I didn’t let you win,” he murmurs. “You cheated. Distracted me with the way your ass looks bent over that putter.”
“Then I should weaponize it more often.”
“You already do.”
I laugh, grabbing his hand as we step back into the carnival’s glow, the hunger still curling between us, and a whole life waiting to be devoured.
Thank you so much for reading Only Mine!