Epilogue
SKYE
“Ow!” Noah cried, as Wallace launched himself from the bar onto Noah’s lap, digging his claws in. “Is this why he’s called a warrior kitten?”
“No,” Cherise called, looking up from where she read a book with a half-naked woman being carried by an almost entirely naked man on the cover. “It’s because the warriors used to carry them into battle in their sporrans.”
Noah’s mouth dropped open and I bit back a grin as I cleaned some dirty glasses behind the bar.
“Aye, right they did. And me mum won gold in the Olympics.” Noah glared at Cherise, certain she was having him on. Cherise just shrugged, turned a page, and went back to her smutty story. Noah turned to me, an eyebrow raised.
“Did they really?” he mouthed to me.
I burst out laughing and leaned over to scratch Wallace’s wee head.
“Aye, they certainly did. Every good warrior kept a kitten with him, didn’t they?”
“Surely that’s not true,” Noah protested.
We were both cat-sitting and pub-sitting for Harper and Reed, as they’d taken a much-needed vacation. It was February, dismal as all hell outside, and I was happy as could be.
Noah, true to his word, hadn’t pressed me on the songwriting and slowly I’d been integrating myself into his world a bit more.
Some nights, if I didn’t have guests, I stayed over at his house.
Other nights, he stayed in my wee upstairs flat with me.
We’d fallen into an easy rhythm, and though sometimes my guests almost fainted when they realized that the Noah Byrne was having tea with them in their guesthouse, for the most part, Noah was able to live a fairly unbothered life.
He’d gotten his studio set up the way he liked, much faster than I would have expected, but I guess that’s what happens when you have a butt load of money and a record contract on the line.
I couldn’t help but be drawn into the act of making music again.
It was in my bones, after all, and I often found myself humming melodies that would pop into my head throughout the day.
And Noah would be right there, sliding his voice in under mine, and every time, my heart felt full to bursting.
We weren’t rushing anything. There was no real talk of what came next, or where we were going. Instead, we leaned into discovering who we were together in this moment.
And, aside from Esther deciding she needed to document it every step of the way, we were happy about it.
A flash blinded me and I sighed, turning to Esther.
“Haven’t we talked about the whole not using a flash indoors, Esther?”
“But it’s what all the kids are doing these days. They like these washed-out, nineties vibe, authentic photos. Like you aren’t trying too hard, you know?” Esther looked up from her phone as I glared at her. She wore a jumper that said Book Bitches for Life.
“What kids? And I thought we talked to you about privacy.” I gave her a look.
“All the kids. And I’m not taking photos of you, Miss Full of Herself.
It’s for wee Wallace’s Instagram. He’s quite famous, you know.
” Esther leaned down and scratched under Wallace’s chin and I rolled my eyes over her head at Noah.
He grinned and my stomach did that funny fluttery thing it did whenever I saw him.
“Well, you can take a picture of him with cake,” I said, bringing out a cake box. Wallace, sensing food, hopped from Noah’s lap to the bar and nudged his head against the box.
“What’s the occasion?” Meredith called from where she read next to Cherise. The pub was half full, with quiet music playing, and a fire warming the room while icy sleet rained down outside.
“It’s my gran’s birthday.” Reaching into my tote, I pulled out my favorite picture of her, one where she was laughing by the sea as the sun set, and put it next to the framed photo of Lewis on the counter.
He already had a shot poured for him in front of his picture frame, but my gran preferred a spot of sherry, so I poured her that instead and tucked it in front of the frame.
Brrrrp. Wallace let out a soft little meow, drawing my attention, but just before I shifted, I saw her.
Gran sitting right next to Lewis, both of their faces wreathed in smiles, and then they were gone.
My heart warmed, and then twisted, in that funny way it does when someone’s memory brings you both joy and a wee touch of sadness.
“Now, none of that, lass. You know I have no tolerance for all that weeping and wailing you young folk get on with.” I heard her voice, clear as day, and despite myself, I snorted.
She’d always been one to put on a cup of tea and move past the emotional bits.
So I’d honor today in much the same way.
Flipping the lid over, I pulled out a knife.
“Who wants cake?” I asked.
“Me!” most of the pub cried.
And then Wallace did the unthinkable and dove his nose straight into the frosting. Noah choked on a laugh. I gasped as Wallace pulled his head back, almost startled to find frosting on his nose, and then began to lick at it hysterically.
Flashes blinded me.
“Damn it, Esther!” I said, holding my hand in front of my face.
“Oh wheesht, Skye. Do it for the ’gram.”
“You’re impossible.” I sighed, laughing as Wallace tried to lick all the frosting from his face. When a gleam entered the cat’s eye, I angled the box away.
“Right, who wants slightly smushed cake with a side of a few cat hairs?”
Laughter greeted me and I smiled back, happy that for once, my fresh start had led me where I needed to go all along.
Back to Noah.
His eyes met mine over the cake box, easy and rested, a world of difference from the soul-weary ones when he’d first slipped through my door before Christmas.
He was home now.
We were home now. Together.
We were finally writing our story, the song that had never been written, and it was, if I do say so myself, perfect.