Epilogue - Maeve
Two and Half Years Later
The Highland Bean smelled exactly the same.
That was the first thing that got me. Not the new green door or the framed newspaper review near the till.
The smell. The smell was old paper and the vanilla extract Lena used in her muffin recipe, which she'd once admitted came from the corner shop because the fancy stuff was "twelve quid and tasted the same. "
It didn’t
I stood in the doorway for probably too long, letting it hit me. The last time I'd been here, I was Maeve Porter, with not enough money in the business account, pregnant and pretending my ankles weren't swollen because I couldn't afford to stop working.
I'd kept my scent buried under coffee grounds and cheap body spray and the permanent damp of Edinburgh weather.
Now I was Maeve Petrov, and I knew I no longer belonged here.
Artem's hand found my lower back. "You okay?"
"Yes. I’m ready."
"Good. Let’s do it." He pressed once, lightly. "Now go inside before Ivan traumatizes the staff."
Ivan was already at the counter with Mila balanced on his hip, examining the menu board with the intensity of a man who has declared that he is now a coffee connoisseur.
Mila was eighteen months old and stubborn, much more than her older brother, but not nearly as bossy. Artem was with Mac looking through the bookshelf, smiling as Mac grumbled that Lena needed more picture books.
Gregor, who was now standing near the door with Fergus in his arms conducting passive surveillance on a café full of university students.
"Does the lavender latte contain actual lavender or is it a conceptual lavender?" Ivan asked the girl behind the till.
She blinked. "It's... a syrup?"
"Acceptable." He turned to Mila. "We’ll try the lavender latte."
"She's eighteen months old," I said. "She doesn't need espresso."
"It's for me. She's worn me out and I needed her to smell the lavender and fall asleep."
"Defeated by a toddler?"
Mila was staring at the scones, her hands making a grabby motion.
“You’re not having anything sticky,” Ivan said.
“Cake,” Mila said, eyes locking onto a cream filled muffin.
“I’m never going to look good anymore,” Ivan groaned.
Artem laughed. “She softens you.”
I bit my lip because Artem was right. But the children softened all of them, not just Ivan. Ivan just always happened to be holding Mila when she had food covered hands. Gregor had some magical sixth sense, and avoided the mess like he knew the future.
“Papa, look at this book.” Mac ran his finger over the picture of a train. At almost three, he had Artem's dark hair and my eyes and a gravity that made elderly women on the tube tell me he was "an old soul."
Artem sat with Mac at a table, taking the book and opening it to the first page and began to read.
Mac frowned. "Can I have a train, Papa."
"It could be negotiable and fun."
"Absolutely not negotiable," I said.
Ivan leaned over Mila’s curls. "Your mother is very strict because she loves us."
"Your father is very dramatic because no one stopped him young enough."
Gregor, now sitting on the other side of Mac, Fergus still on his lap. "I attempted to stop him."
"And yet here we are about to buy a train because your son mentioned wanting one."
Mac showed his teeth like a tiny king.
Near the front window, an old woman sat with a golden retriever at her feet and a scone she'd barely touched. Mila turned and spotted the dog immediately and began tugging at Ivan's collar.
"Down," she announced. "Doggy."
"Ask nicely."
"Doggy, please."
Ivan set her down, took her hand and they approached the woman. Ivan stopped her at a respectful distance. “Ask nicely.”
“Doggy.”
Mac pushed off his chair and joined Mila, taking her other hand. "Can we pet your doggy, please?"
The woman looked delighted. "Of course you can, sweetheart."
Mac reached out and patted the retriever's head with the gentle precision of someone who'd been coached extensively by an overqualified enforcer. Then he turned back to Mila, who was toddling toward him with her hand already extended.
"Careful," Mac told her. "Gentle. He's old."
Mila giggled and smacked the dog enthusiastically on the nose. The retriever, to its credit, accepted this with the resignation of an animal who was used to small things patting him.
From the table, a low territorial growl vibrated through the café. Not Gregor but Fergus. He was glaring at the retriever with the same intensity of the estate Dobermans, just not quite as ferocious sounding and nowhere near as threatening.
"Stand down," Gregor murmured.
Fergus ignored him and produced another rattly growl.
"Your authority has been challenged," I said.
"My authority is intact. He's expressing an opinion."
"That's not what that sound means."
Gregor adjusted Fergus in his arms. "He's doing his job and protecting our children."
"He's jealous of a golden retriever."
"He's providing protection services," Gregor said and smiled, “perhaps he is a little jealous."
The back room door swung open and Lena emerged with a tray of clean mugs. She spotted me, froze, and dropped the tray.
Luckily, it clattered onto the counter.
"Maeve?!" Lena's voice hit a register usually reserved for fire alarms.
"Hi, Lena."
She scrambled around the counter and threw her arms around me with enough force to make me stumble. Gregor was about to lunge forward, but stopped himself.
"Oh my god." She pulled back, wiping her eyes. "You look incredible. We thought we'd never see you again. You just vanished. And then the café paperwork came through and I thought. I didn't know if you were dead or in witness protection or—"
"It's been a busy few years."
Lena's gaze drifted past my shoulder and landed on the three massive men.
Ivan was now holding Mila upside down for reasons I had stopped trying to understand.
Gregor was still holding Fergus, who was still glaring at the retriever.
Artem was standing behind me with Mac at his side, watching the exchange.
Lena squeaked. "Oh. Oh my."
"They're with me."
"I remember. And the kids."
"My son Mac, and daughter Mila. The other kid who is swinging Mila by her feet is Ivan. He went from terrifying to silly. My sensible, dog-loving alpha is Gregor...” I leaned in and whispered. “He pretends he is training him, because he doesn’t want to admit he loves a three pound dog.”
Lena smiled. “I love men like that.”
“Me too.” I turned to Artem. “And this one is Artem. He’s only terrifying when we leave the house and he thinks everyone is a threat."
Lena blinked rapidly, looking from my fully marked neck to the three men and back again. "They're very..."
"Large?"
"I was going to say intense." She swallowed. "They're also large. Both things."
"They are," I agreed, and pulled a stack of five hardcover books from my tote bag. "I brought you something."
I set them on the counter. The cover was dark and abstract, showing a skull with a snake winding through the eye sockets, and across the bottom, in silver lettering was Maeve Petrov.
Lena's hands flew to her mouth. "No. No way. This is your book?"
"I wanted the Highland Bean to have them first."
Tears slid down her cheek as she grabbed a pen from beside the till and shoved it at me. "Sign them. All of them. Right now. I'm putting one in the window."
"You can't put a dark romance novel in a café window."
"I can put whatever I want in my window. I'm the owner. I have power and I'm not afraid to abuse it."
I signed the books while Lena kept glancing at Ivan like she expected him to produce a weapon from somewhere. He was holding Mila, which probably helped. It was hard to look threatening with a toddler yanking your sweater.
"We can't stay long," I said, checking my watch. "We have a flight."
"A holiday?"
"A welcome party. My best friend just had another baby. We're going to France for a celebration."
Fifteen minutes later, Lena handed me a paper bag of muffins. "Take these. The lemon poppy seed ones. I remember you liked them."
I looked at the bag. At the café. At the green door and the brass bells and the framed review and the girl behind the till, I remembered I was poor but happy when there.
"For what it's worth," Lena said quietly, "you built something good here. Even if you had to leave it. It mattered."
I hugged her. Hard and fast, before the tears could catch up. "Thank you. For keeping it alive."
"Someone had to. You were too busy becoming a mafia wife and writing books."
"Bratva. I left the mafia behind."
"Oh my god, there's a difference?"
"Apparently. Artem was very specific about it."
Lena looked at Artem. "He doesn't look very specific about anything right now."
"He's off duty."
The Mediterranean glittered below us like a postcard that refused to be subtle.
Presley's villa sprawled down the hillside in terraces of cream stone and blue shutters, olive trees twisting out of gravel beds, bougainvillea spilling over every wall in shades of pink and orange that looked so beautiful and French.
The distant sea went on forever. The air smelled of warm stone, lemons, and too many children with access to marshmallows and a chocolate fountain.
Mac was chasing Presley's eldest daughter around the garden. Mila had sat down in the grass and was methodically destroying a croissant, feeding pieces to one of Presley's twin boys who appeared to be accepting them because he was brought up right and didn’t want to upset her.
I sat with Presley under a large umbrella, sipping sparkling water while she bounced her newest arrival—a tiny, sleeping baby boy—against her chest. Four children. She looked exhausted and radiant in equal measure, the way women do when they've made peace with chaos.
"So," she said, patting the baby's back. "Have you heard from Mary? Did she finally settle in Boston? I remember her struggling."