Epilogue
“Whiskey, if you don’t get that fine ass down here right now, we’re going to be late!”
“Well you won’t tell me where we’re going, so I don’t know what to wear!”
I heard his footsteps on the stairs and a moment later, Owen appeared in the doorway of our bedroom. “You could wear a paper bag and you’d still be the hottest woman alive.”
I softened a touch, though I was still frazzled, and approximately twenty-seven dresses littered our bed and the floor around it. I stood in the center of our walk-in closet, clad only in a pair of nude panties. “I love you for saying that, but I disagree.”
“Actually,” Owen said, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around me from behind, his large, calloused palms coming up to cup my breasts. His head bent, nuzzling my neck, placing a biting, sucking kiss over my pulse. “I think you should go just like this. It’ll make it much easier to fuck you later.”
I spun in his arms and swatted at him, shooing him away. “ Help me!” I pleaded, fisting my hair at my temples.
“You do realize that, by asking for my help, you’re going to wear the first thing I pick out, and you’re going to do it with a smile on your face.”
I folded my arms over my tits and cocked a hip, glaring at him. “Or what?”
He approached, cupping my chin in his hand. “Or I’ll carry you outside just like this and force you to go to dinner in nothing but this floss you call panties.” He punctuated his point by slipping a finger under the flimsy material bisecting my ass cheeks, pulling and letting it go with a snap .
Though we weren’t strangers to seeking our pleasure in semi-public places, the picture he painted wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time, so I said, “Noted.”
With a nod, Owen moved across the closet to the rack where all of my dresses hung, organized by length and color, sifting through the shorter ones.
I rolled my eyes, unsurprised. The man loved my legs.
Transfixed, I watched as his long, thick fingers danced over the hangers, rapidly considering and discarding each new option.
Finally, he settled on one, and turned toward me holding a little red number with a flouncy, ruffled skirt and delicate straps that crisscrossed down my back, knotting at the base of my spine.
Carefully, he removed it from the hanger and loosened the tie as I approached, steadying my hands on his shoulders to place one leg through the skirt then the other. With a gentle palm on my shoulder, he turned my back to him and adjusted the straps, his fingertips brushing distractingly against my skin as he worked his way down, tightening them before tying the little bow. He hooked his fingers in the material and pulled me back against him. My chest heaved, my desire heightened from the simple act of him dressing me.
Not entirely surprising given that everything about this man turned me on.
“Who knew putting clothes on you could be as fun as taking them off,” he said into my hair.
“What happened to being late?”
“I don’t know, Whiskey.” Against my backside, I felt him starting to thicken, and I couldn’t resist grinding my ass into his groin. “You in this dress has me thinking we should just stay home.”
“No!” I shouted, shoving out of his arms and heaving a head-clearing breath as I retreated a few steps. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“You don’t even know what we’re doing,” he reminded me with a smirk.
I shrugged, moving to my shoe rack and selecting a pair of strappy, scarlet heels, sitting on the padded bench next to it to slip them on. “It’s our anniversary.”
Owen and I didn’t have an anniversary in the traditional sense, so we’d both agreed as the day drew near that the day we first fucked would suffice.
He’d been stuck with me since then anyway, so it was as good a day as any.
That night, we were celebrating one year together, and for once, we were dressing up to go out for some fancy dinner Owen refused to give me any specifics on. All I knew was we were going somewhere in Traverse City. Instantly, I’d guessed Birdie’s, being that it was the nicest restaurant in the city, but he assured me that wasn’t it. I’d tried over the last couple weeks, since he first proposed this idea to me, to pump him for information. Unfortunately, the man was a vault.
“You’re right,” Owen said, approaching me and taking my hand, lifting it to his mouth to press a kiss to my knuckles. “It’s our anniversary, and you are far too sinful in that dress just to take it right back off. We should at least let people see it.”
“And you really should wear a suit more often,” I told him, taking my hand back and smoothing them both down the satin lapels of his jacket. In the matching pants, the exterior seams piped with the same satin, and a crisp white shirt, he was looking particularly delicious. He’d forgone a tie, instead leaving the shirt open at the collar, his chain glinting against his skin—the zero now replaced with my first initial—and I leaned in to press a kiss to the sliver of exposed chest.
“We have to leave. Now,” he said, and I giggled as he tugged me from the room, lifting me off my feet to carry me down the stairs.
About three months after we’d gotten together, Owen had sold his house on Boardman Lake and moved in with me in ABB. I’d never cohabitated with a man who wasn’t my father before, so I could admit I’d been nervous to welcome him into my space.
Naturally, I’d been worried for nothing. Exactly as we’d done everything else, we settled into living together easily. Nine months down the road, it felt like he’d always lived there with me. We converted the spare bedroom on the main floor into an office for him, though he continued to beg me to let him move out to the garage with me .
I shut that suggestion down real fast. A girl still needed her own space.
We made the drive so frequently that the trip from our house to Traverse City passed quickly, mostly with me belting the words to my favorite Taylor Swift album while Owen pretended to be miserable as he silently mouthed them along with me.
Before long, we were pulling up behind Lawless, and I glanced at Owen quizzically.
“What’re we doing here?” I asked, though he ignored me in favor of getting out and coming around to help me out. “I thought you said we were having dinner.”
“We are,” he said, not bothering to elaborate as he slipped his hand into mine and pulled me to the back door.
“Owen!” I protested, attempting to pull him to a stop, a feat I obviously didn’t and could never accomplish.
Still, he didn’t speak as he punched in the code on the security system keypad, and the door buzzed to admit us.
Since it was Saturday night, reasonably, the place should’ve been packed and loud.
It was neither of those things, and as we navigated the dark hallway that led out onto the floor, I was hit by a wave of deja vu. Instantly, I was transported back to the first time I’d come here to meet with him, how seeing it in broad daylight, void of people, had caught me off guard.
My god, it was amazing how far he and I had come in a little over a year.
The distillery survived its first winter and was at capacity day in and day out all last summer. This fall had been steady so far, and we were currently discussing the possibility of taking our product to market. In addition, all of Owen’s other businesses continued to flourish, and I’d managed to land some marketing partnerships with some national and international brands I loved.
All in all, we were absolutely thriving, and we had a lot to be thankful for.
But the thing I was most thankful for was the man holding my hand, especially as we rounded the corner onto the floor of the club, and the scene unfolded in front of me.
The space typically reserved for the dance floor now held a single round table in its center, a chair on either side, the surface draped with a white cloth and sprinkled with red rose petals. More of them littered the floor, slipping underfoot as Owen led me to the table and pulled out a chair for me. A bottle of sparkling wine sat on ice, and another bottle of red was uncorked and breathing, ready to be poured into goblets and consumed. Candles glittered everywhere, supplementing the low overhead lighting.
Beyond the bucket of bubbly sat a cart, each shelf holding several domed dishes.
“Welcome to dinner,” Owen said, gesturing at the cart. “Can I interest you in an appetizer?”
“ You’re waiting on me?”
Owen pursed his lips then flattened his mouth. “I wait on you all the time.”
“In bed,” I corrected. “Have you ever waited tables a day in your life?”
“Have you ?” he shot back, and I reclined in my seat. He had a point. “Plus, it’s not that hard. Ezra gave me strict instructions. All I have to do is take the domes off, remove the plates from the trays, and put them on the table. Hardly rocket science.”
“Ezra?” I asked, incredulous. “You made Ezra cook for us?”
“I didn’t make him do anything. I asked, and he agreed. I also paid him a healthy sum for his services.”
I shook my head, a light chuckle escaping me. My man was ridiculous.
Honestly, while the meal was delicious, every memory of the dishes Ezra had prepared for us fled my mind the moment we finished dessert and the stage suddenly illuminated.
“What is happening?” Owen only shrugged, turning his attention toward the front of the room.
All the air in my lungs and every thought in my head vacated me when a man stepped out from the wings, a guitar slung across his body, sleeves of his signature flannel rolled up to his elbows, showcasing the tattoos I’d know anywhere.
I gaped at Owen. “You didn’t.”
“I think I did,” he said, reaching out to gently close my mouth. “You’re drooling.”
“That’s fucking Boston Everett ,” I hissed. “Of course I’m drooling!”
“Careful, Whiskey,” he said. “Lest you forget how jealous I can get.”
I scoffed. “He’s the biggest country artist in the world,” I said. “He doesn’t give a fuck about me.”
“You bagged an NFL quarterback,” he reminded me.
“Retired,” I said, shooting his favorite quip back at him.
“Hi, Delia,” Boston said into the mic. “According to your boyfriend, you’re a huge fan of mine, and he asked if I’d come out and do a private show for you to celebrate your anniversary. Not gonna lie, man,” he continued, directing his attention at Owen, “I about shit my pants when I got your call. I’m a huge fan of yours.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “So anyway, here we go. This first one is called ‘Rich.’”
As the opening bars of Boston’s most popular love song rang through the speakers, Owen rose from his seat and extended a hand to me.
“May I have this dance?”
Still in shock that he’d done this for me, I stood on shaky legs and followed him closer to the stage, where he hooked my arms around his neck before looping his around my waist. As we swayed, Boston sang about being rich in love, and I rested my head on Owen’s chest. The steady beat of his heart melted into the strings Boston picked, and I floated away, losing myself wholly in this moment.
“Whiskey,” he whispered, and I lifted my head to look at him. “I have a question for you.”
“If you’re wondering if I love you, the answer is yes times a million.” I craned my neck, and he met me for a kiss.
With a laugh, Owen shook his head. “That’s not it, but hold onto that answer.”
As Boston sang the final note, Owen stepped away from me…
And dropped to his knee.
“No.”
“Delia…” he warned.
I slapped my palm over my mouth, holding in all the words that flooded forward.
“I performed this exact act a lot in my career,” he said, gesturing to his position on the floor. “And a few times since,” he added with a smirk, throwing me back to that day at Overtime when he went down on me for the first time.
Exactly a year ago.
“But it’s never meant more than it does right now. You are more than I ever bargained for and everything I never knew I needed. This last year with you has been the best of my life. Pardon the football metaphor, but every day with you is a victory. I love you more with each passing second, and now I’m wondering…will you marry me and be my teammate forever?”
I didn’t need to consider it. I simply dropped to the floor in front of him and whispered, “Yes, Owen Lawless. Of course I’ll marry you.”
He patted himself down, at last digging into his pants pocket and withdrawing a velvet jewelry box. When he popped it open, I gasped.
“It’s too big.”
“No such thing.”
“Owen.”
“Take the goddamn ring, Whiskey,” he growled, withdrawing it from its cushion and sliding it onto my finger before I could protest further.
I lifted my hand, marveling at the way it sparkled. Set on a rose gold band was a large opal ringed by small diamonds. I discovered a new color in the stone with each twist and turn of my hand. It was unlike any ring I’d seen before, and it was utterly perfect.
Owen rose to his feet, pulling me with him, and I latched onto his neck as he dipped me backward and kissed me soundly.
As we straightened, applause broke out around us, and I opened my eyes to find our families filing down the stairs from the loft.
Wide-eyed, I turned to Owen, and he grinned sheepishly.
“How do you feel about an impromptu engagement party?”
I could do nothing but laugh, drawing him in for one more kiss before I let my sisters fawn all over me.
“I love you, QB.”
“Forever, Whiskey.”