Epilogue #2
She nods again, taking my hand and squeezing it.
“Like a few minutes ago when you asked me if I needed a break. I had just started to feel my shoulders bunch. The customer chatter and crinkling of paper bags were starting to grate on me.” She laces her fingers with mine.
“You sensed it before I even realized I was getting overstimulated.”
I rub my thumb over her knuckles. “It’s probably because I can’t take my eyes off you. I’ve learned your tells.”
But she has a point. Since we’ve been living together, I’ve become an expert at reading her without really trying.
“You’re crazy good at it.” She holds my gaze. “Better than anyone else.”
The truth in her words settles over me like a weighted blanket. Reassuring. Right.
It reaffirms my decision.
I’m going to ask Hattie to marry me.
But not today.
Her family knows my intentions. Margaret begged me to do it today, saying it would be perfect. Her birthday. Her opening day. The day she got engaged.
If I’m the only one who knows that would be too much for Hattie, it’s a good thing I’m the only one who gets to ask.
And after reading about a hundred contradictory Reddit posts about sensory-friendly engagement rings, I decided Hattie should absolutely pick or design her own.
If she wants a ring at all.
So when I ask, it’ll just be me down on one knee.
And it’ll just be us.
Because I know down to my bones that Hattie won’t enjoy a crowd. Not even the small crowd of just our families.
No excited shrieks. No flurry of hugs. No barrage of questions ten seconds after she accepts my hand.
Just the two of us. My question. Her answer. And a kiss that rivals heaven.
Not today.
But maybe tomorrow if she’s not too tired.
I lean over and press a kiss to her lips. Not one that rivals heaven, but hopefully one that whispers that she owns me, body and soul.
“You ready to go back inside? Pop and the guys are here.”
She sits up, eyes eager. “Are they looking at layette patterns?”
“Yep.”
“Come on!” She scrambles to her feet, tugging me by the hand. “This’ll be so fun!”
Her excitement about making baby clothes for our future niece floods my chest with warmth. I plant my feet and stop her. Hattie wheels around, flushed and impatient.
And wholly beautiful.
“What?”
“Gimme a second. Before I have to share you with everyone else.”
Her expression softens and she steps toward me, closing the distance between us. “Yeah?”
I swallow hard. “You’re crazy good at it too, you know.”
Her brows cinch in confusion. “At sewing?”
“That too,” I say with a shrug. “But I meant knowing what I need.”
Her brow smooths and one corner of her mouth curls up.
“Better than anyone else.” I echo the words she gave me.
“And, yes, I mean helping me save the farm and expand the distillery. But I also mean drawing me a hot bath when I’ve been sitting on a tractor all day.
Making my dad laugh when his hands are shaking so bad he wants to crawl in a hole.
Keeping me in bed when you know better than I do that the world won’t end if I’m not in the fields at first light. ”
She tilts her head, coyness shaping her lips into a sexy pout. “I am rather good at that.”
My reckless smile is the only warning she gets before I drag her to me.
I kiss and kiss her. Like she doesn’t have a business to run. Like the sun has ceased its trek across the sky.
Like this woman is the greatest boon of my life.
Which, of course, she is.
I don’t pull away until I feel Hattie go a little boneless and breathless in my arms. She’s not the only one needing oxygen and perhaps a crutch or two.
We go back into her shop. She helps Grif, Kennedy, and Pop pick out patterns and fabric. She sells another two dresses, eight more yards of fabric, and one Serger. And at five o’clock, absolutely overjoyed and tired to her bones, Hattie closes the book on her Opening Day.
I feed her burgers from Twin’s, and she’s asleep on the couch with her feet in my lap by seven forty-five.
It will go down as the second-best day of my life.
The first will always be the following day.
I wake up intending to drive her out to the edge of our fields and walk her under the trees before dropping to one knee.
But I don’t even make it through breakfast.
It’s just after nine a.m. on Sunday. The guys have taken Pop to Chastant Brothers for the fruit trees he wants them to plant this afternoon. Meyer lemon, nectarine, and pomegranate. Flavors we could add to our subscription catalogue one day.
So Hattie and I have the house to ourselves.
I make pancakes, and when I serve Hattie, she stares at the melting butter and syrup like they are evidence of the divine.
She forks a bite and moans in bliss. “OhmyGod…”
“Good?”
“Life-altering.”
I laugh. She smacks her lips.
“I want this every Sunday until the end of time,” she mutters after another bite.
And that’s just it.
I want this. Hattie here, cracking me up while she eats the breakfast I make every morning. Me, curled around her softness in bed each night. Working together. Leaning on each other.
Making love under the stars in the bed of my truck. Building a family of our own.
And I can’t wait another second to make it official.
“Hattie,” I say, mouth dry as I slide off my chair and drop to one knee beside her.
She watches me, blinking in confusion for only a second before her hazel eyes round. “Beck?”
When I take her hand, she squeezes mine harder than she ever has.
And it’s just right.
I swallow hard. “I want this. Every day. For the rest of our lives.” My heartbeat rockets, nerves rushing my blood. “Will you marry me?”
Hattie sucks in a gasp. As if she couldn’t let herself be sure until she heard the words.
I know exactly how she feels. Because seconds telescope as I watch her throat work, yet no words emerge.
Color rises on her cheeks. Tears glint in her eyes.
And then she shouts the words that will remain my all-time favorite.
“HELL, YES, I’LL MARRY YOU!”
THE END