Layla
The bookstore in Seattle is buzzing, soft chatter, the rustle of pages, the faint scent of fresh ink and coffee drifting from the café counter.
Rows of shelves tower around me, packed with books that feel like old friends, but tonight the crowd is here for me.
For my words. For the story I poured everything into.
The book has had a great start—reviews pouring in, pre-orders climbing, readers messaging me screenshots of their favorite lines.
Turns out I can write from Tennessee and have a baby and be a super cool smutty author and still be a wife. I can be all those things.
I’m standing at the front table in a simple black dress, fitted but comfortable, the kind that makes me feel powerful without trying too hard.
My hair is loose, waves falling over my shoulders, a single gold chain resting between my breasts.
The microphone is warm in my hand, the spotlight soft but bright.
I’m answering questions, laughing at the spicy ones, tearing up at the sweet ones, when I see him.
A tall, brooding blonde man slips in through the back doors and stands behind the audience, arms crossed, hat low, eyes locked on me like I’m the only person in the room. My heart stutters, then slams against my ribs so hard I almost drop the mic.
“Speaking of grumpy cowboys,” I say into the microphone, voice catching just a little, “my inspiration, my husband, Cole. I love you, honey.”
I point at him. The crowd turns, murmurs ripple through them, a few phones lift.
Cole doesn’t smile big—he never does in public—but his eyes soften, that small, private curve of his lips just for me.
He nods once, slowly, and mouths “I love you” back, silent, steady, the way he always says it when words feel too big.
He waits through all the book signings, leaning against a shelf in the back, arms still crossed, watching me.
Watching me talk to readers, sign books, hug strangers who tell me my story helped them.
Watching me in my element. In my zone. Every time our eyes meet, something inside me settles.
He’s here. He came. After everything, after the silence, the fight, the months of figuring out how to love each other out loud, he’s here.
When it’s finally over, the store lights dim a little, the last reader leaves with a signed copy clutched to her chest. I’m exhausted—voice hoarse, hand cramped from signing—but buzzing with that post-event high. Cole walks up slow, boots quiet on the carpet, hat still low, eyes never leaving mine.
“I love seeing you do what you love most,” he says, voice low, rough, the way it always gets when it’s just us.
“Thanks, babe,” I whisper, stepping into him. His arms come around me instantly, warm, solid, smelling like leather and pine and home.
“Want to grab one of those coffees you love so much?” he asks, thumb brushing my lower back.
“I’d love that. I’m dying for one.”
“Me too.” He smirks, small, crooked, the one that still makes my stomach flip.
I bump his arm with mine, playful, familiar.
“Oh look, Maggie just sent a picture of Stella.”
He pulls out his phone, screen lighting up his face and shows me. Stella’s in the pool with Aunt Maggie, chubby arms splashing, big grin, dark curls wet and wild. My heart squeezes so hard it hurts, in the best way.
“I miss her,” I say, voice thick.
“Let’s get out of this city and go home.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he says, smirking again.
And I’m happy. Because I finally got my happy ending.
Not the one I wrote in the book, though that helped me see it was possible.
The real one. Messy. Imperfect. Full of fights and silences and forgiveness and love that grew stronger every time we almost lost it.
Cole isn’t perfect. Neither am I. But he’s mine.
And I’m his. And Stella—our wild, perfect little girl—is proof that sometimes the best stories don’t follow the outline. They just happen.