16. Epilogue #2
There is no hesitation.
I take his ring from the box. My fingers are not entirely steady, but neither are his. That helps.
The ring slides over his knuckle and settles at the base of his finger.
We both stare at it.
It looks right.
Not because a ring fixes everything. Not because marriage turns us into people who never annoy each other or never get scared or never need a door closed between one day and the next.
It looks right because it is on Peter.
Because he is standing in my kitchen with tomato on his thumb, flour on his forearm and my ring on his hand.
He lifts that hand slowly, turning it as if the light might change the truth of it.
Then he looks at me.
“My turn,” he says.
My stomach flips.
I hand him the other ring before I can make an unhelpful joke.
He takes my left hand.
For once, Peter does not smile. He does not soften the moment with humour, or make it easier for me to bear by turning it sideways. He looks down at my hand in his and slides the ring onto my finger with such careful tenderness that my throat closes.
The ring settles in place.
I stare at it.
My hand looks like mine.
Still mine.
Only now there is proof on it that I have chosen something I once thought would take too much from me.
Peter lifts my hand and kisses the ring.
Then my knuckles.
Then the inside of my wrist.
“I love you,” he says.
I know.
I know it in the way he touches me. In the quiet after my hard days. In the fact that he still buys fruit pastilles sometimes but now pretends they are for himself. In the space he gives me without making me earn it.
Still, hearing it now makes my chest ache.
“I love you too.”
His eyes close for a moment.
When they open, whatever restraint he has been holding on to is thinner.
I reach for him first.
His mouth meets mine. His hand settles at my waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my blouse.
My whole body reacts.
His thumb stills.
“Dinner,” he murmurs.
“Can wait.”
“I worked hard on that.”
“I proposed. I outrank cottage pie.”
“Strong case.”
“I usually have one.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Upstairs?”
I take his hand.
We leave the cottage pie on the worktop and the flowers leaning in their jam jar and the wine half-drunk on the table.
Halfway up the stairs, Peter stops.
“What?”
He looks down at our joined hands.
At the rings.
Then at me.
His face is so open it almost hurts to see.
“I am trying not to say something dangerously sentimental.”
“Good.”
“Failing.”
“Also good.”
He smiles, and I pull him up the last few steps.
My bedroom is exactly as I left it this morning. Cardigan over the chair. Book face down on the bedside table. Laundry basket full. A pair of tights abandoned near the wardrobe because past Mandy is an inconsiderate chaos gremlin.
Peter does not look at any of it.
He only has eyes for me.
I turn to face him at the foot of the bed. For a moment, we stand there like we have never done this before.
In some ways, we have not.
Not like this.
Not with rings on both our hands and no secret waiting outside the door. Not with my proposal still warm between us. Not with the future no longer treated as a trap I must avoid stepping into.
I take his left hand and lift it to my mouth.
The ring is cool against my lips.
Peter goes very still.
I kiss the ring first. Then his knuckle. Then the inside of his wrist, where his pulse is fast beneath my mouth.
“Mandy.”
My name sounds different when he says it like that. Not uncertain. Not guarded. Just full of everything we no longer have to pretend is casual.
I start on his shirt buttons, kissing each patch of skin as I uncover it. By the fourth, his patience gives out. He pulls the shirt over his head, catches me around the waist and lifts me.
I laugh. ‘Efficient.’
“I have a fiancée waiting.”
“Demanding woman, is she?”
“Terrifying.” He kisses me. “I adore her.”
The words set off a ridiculous flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
He sets me on the edge of the bed and stands between my knees. I undo his belt while he pulls my blouse over my head. Our rings catch and click together, and we both pause to look.
“Still strange?” he asks.
“Still perfect.”
His smile is soft enough to make me want to ruin it. I close my hand around his cock through his boxers and watch his eyes shut.
“Mandy,” he warns again.
“Yes?”
“If you are trying to test the limits of a newly engaged man, I should warn you they are not impressive.”
“We can work on your stamina during the engagement.”
“Cheeky.”
He bends and kisses me, laughing into my mouth. The laughter goes when his hand slips beneath my bra and cups my breast. I arch into his palm, then lift my arms so he can strip the rest of my clothes away.
I reach into the bedside drawer for a condom and hold it up.
He tears the packet and rolls it on. Then he sits against the headboard and pats his thigh.
“Come here.”
I crawl towards him. ‘That was suspiciously confident.’
“Committed relationship. I am allowed to know what my future wife likes.”
I straddle his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. His hands settle at my waist, but he waits for me to guide him inside.
The stretch makes us both go quiet. I lower myself until I am sitting fully on him, our chests touching, his arms locked around my back.
This position leaves nowhere to hide. I can see every change in his face and feel every breath he takes. His ring brushes my spine. Mine rests against the back of his neck.
“I love you,” he says.
“I know.”
His eyebrows rise.
I kiss him. “I love you too, you needy sod.”
“Much better.”
I begin to move, lifting and rolling my hips. Peter lets me choose the pace at first, his mouth moving over my neck and shoulder, his hands roaming with the easy familiarity of a man who has learnt my body and still enjoys discovering it.
“Tell me,” I say.
He looks up. “Tell you what?”
“What your future wife likes.”
His hands tighten on my hips. “She likes being in charge.”
“Correct.”
“She likes pretending she is not desperate for me.”
I lift myself slowly, keeping only the tip of him inside. “Careful.”
His gaze darkens. “And she likes it when I stop letting her pretend.”
He pulls me down hard.
The cry leaves me before I can stop it. Peter catches it with his mouth and drives up into me again. The teasing rhythm vanishes. I brace one hand on the headboard while his arm holds me close and we move together, rougher now.
“Is that what I like?” I manage.
“You tell me.”
“Do it again.”
He does. The angle sends pleasure clean through me, and I ride him harder, chasing it. His thumb finds my clit between us, sure and exact.
“Peter, I am going to come.”
“Good. I want to watch.”
I hold his gaze as it takes me. My body clenches around him, my hips losing their rhythm while he keeps touching me. There is no urge to hide my face or swallow the sound. This is Peter. He has seen all of me, including the awkward bits, and chosen the whole inconvenient lot.
He says my name, once, sharply. I push down as he thrusts up and feel his release run through him, his arms closing around me.
I stay in his lap while our breathing slows, forehead against his, our hands clasped between us.
“Your cottage pie,” I say eventually.
“Ruined.”
“Bit dramatic. But I will make it up to you.”
“How?”
“Breakfast.”
He leans back enough to study me. “You will cook me breakfast?”
“I will buy you a bacon sarnie from the van by the surgery.”
“That,” he says, kissing my shoulder, “is the most romantic thing anyone has ever offered me… aside from an engagement ring.”
I laugh and he gathers me closer. My ring rests against his neck. His hand, ring and all, spreads over my back.
Nothing has been taken from me. Nothing has been lost. The future no longer feels like a door closing. It feels like choice. Like us. Like Peter.
For now, this is the end of the road for the Ramblers of St Claire.
If you have only just discovered them, the first three books (including Hunter and Alexandra's story) are already waiting for you, with plenty more walks, meddling, romance and, of course, Bernard.
And is this really goodbye to St Claire?
Maybe not.
I do have a habit of missing my characters once I leave them behind, so I would never rule out a fifth visit sometime in the future.
For now, though, I am leaving the Ramblers exactly where they belong: together, happy and spoiling Bernard.