Epilogue
Holly & Chance & Holly again… because boss bitches get the first and last word.
One Year Later
HOLLY
Look at that man over there.
Good God.
Cargo pants?
Check.
A Henley that subtly molds around his pecs?
Fucking check.
Dog tags that do double duty as a handle making Chance feral with lust?
Motherfucking check.
He shoots me a wink from where he’s leaning against the bar, all easy confidence, chatting with Everett’s Uncle Seth and—surprisingly—his own dad.
Chance had been back less than a week after the annual family Christmas trip when his dad called him up, asked him out for drinks, and dropped two bombshell apologies: first, for the colossal Noelle-shaped landmine he dropped last year, and second, for making Chance feel like marriage was the price of his approval.
Apparently, skeletons started sliding out of his father’s closet faster than a busted Jenga tower.
So many that I ended up picking them up—the boys, not the skeletons—because not only could they not drive, they were a tangle of hugs and half-slurred I love you, mans.
Neither of them remembers that part. Supposedly.
I call bullshit.
“Not bad work for just a year. You did good,” Everett says, sliding a hot chocolate with Bailey’s across the counter like it’s a peace offering.
“That’s all them.” I lean on the counter and give him a pointed look. “Besides, I’m not the one up to the mistletoe fuckery. Decide to take the year off?”
“You knew?”
“Not until a few days ago when I spotted you trying to execute a sneak attack on your Uncle Seth.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Your mom was a good sport about it, though.”
Of course, she was. She totally used it to get my dad to up his game. What game? I don’t want to know. It’s bad enough I recognize the smiles and the exhausted content.
Everett rolls his eyes. "You two were exhausting. I've never worked so hard at matchmaking in my life."
"You know..." I stir my drink and watch him, looking for all the little clues. “You seem to be good at seeing what people need."
He winks. "It's a gift.".
"But who takes care of what you need?"
The smile that naturally lights his eyes slips, but before I can go there, my phone buzzes, Eve's message lighting up the screen like a red alert:
EVE
Alright, team. The parents are three drinks in and talking about playing Never Have I Ever
ME
Oh no
CHARLIE
Oh yes
NICK
Absolutely not. Shut it down.
EVE
Too late. Your mom just pulled out the cards, and my Mom's pouring Fireballs. For the record, this one's not on me
ME
Since when do they even know drinking games
CHARLIE
TikTok. My Mom's been watching "family game night" videos
NICK
Can we just go back to last year when all I had to do was worry about about Chance kissing me again?
CHANCE
If you were looking for another kiss, all you had to do is say so.
CHARLIE
No. I’m pregnant and horny. I need Nick uncontaminated and ready to service me at all times.
CHANCE
New rule. Horny is outlawed in group chats.
CHARLIE
So that’s code for you’re not getting bone tonight, Holly. Cause Chance’s just died.
NICK
Bone… also outlawed in group chats.
EVE
Get it together people! They've got that look. You know the one. Like they're about to traumatize us "for fun"
ME
Avoid anything involving the boathouse or suspicious bruises from the 90s.
NICK
What the hell happened in the 90s?
EVE
Heard there were tabs and slots involved. Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.
NICK
I’m never getting on any of the family boats again
From the great room, the distinct sound of shot glasses clinking makes my stomach drop. Mrs. McAdams's voice carries that dangerous enthusiasm that spells disaster. “It’ll be perfect! We can all bond!"
CHANCE
You over seasoned them ONCE and now we're living in your personally crafted hell.
CHANCE
Not my favorite sister right now.
CHARLIE
I could fake labor?
NICK
Don't you dare. We're saving that card for real emergencies.
CHANCE
Like what?
EVE
Battle stations, people. If they start telling college stories, it’s every man for himself.
"Kids!" Mrs. McAllister's voice rings out. "Time for a new tradition!”
Mama McAdams has been added to the chat.
Mama McAllister has been added to the chat.
NICK
DAMMIT EVE!
CHANCE
One year ago, if someone told me I'd be watching my father laugh over beers with Nick, discussing ski season like old friends, I'd have checked their field report for accuracy and questioned their mental state. The man who turned every breath into a tactical assessment is just... being a dad.
Talk about mission failure in the best possible way.
That first real conversation felt like defusing an IED—precise movements, raw nerves, both of us terrified of triggering the wrong wire. Him admitting he'd screwed up was just the start. We're still navigating the terrain, stumbling sometimes, but watching him now? It's like observing a completely different target.
And Holly...
My eyes track her always. Right now, she’s across the room, head thrown back in laughter at something Everett said. She's incendiary—all controlled chaos and brilliant strategy, commanding every inch of space she claims. The sight of her hits me square in the chest, that familiar ache that defies physics and military precision.
She doesn't just succeed. She obliterates expectations.
Setting her plans in motion put Vaultress Global in the news five times alone just based on their unprecedented growth and bold, strategic expansion.
Every report ended with the same burning question: What’s their secret weapon?
My Holly.
That’s always the answer. Not that she’s telling. Or Ethan for that matter. Nope. They’re both content to stay head down and full speed ahead.
Let everyone wonder. She doesn’t want the recognition. Nor does she need it. Not anymore.
This past year, watching her storm through the industry, forcing people to see what I've always known was there—it's been like watching lightning strike in slow motion.
Beautiful. Powerful.
Absolutely unstoppable.
It's not just her intelligence, though that's something to behold. It's her heart. The way she takes care of everyone around her, even when she thinks no one's watching.
Yeah, I’ve never been more certain of anything.
The conversations that used to tangle me in knots, the choices that felt impossible—they're clear now.
My fingers brush the velvet box in my sixteenth pocket. A tiny piece of forever just waiting for deployment. For her.
"You good?" Nick materializes at my shoulder, fresh beer in hand and that look in his eye like he's running a tactical assessment.
"Better than good.”
He nods slowly, taking a pull from his beer as his gaze drifts to Holly. "She's something, isn't she?"
I can't help the laugh that escapes. "You have no idea."
There's no tension between us now, no weight of history or unspoken warnings. Just understanding that we fought hard to earn.
Nick claps my shoulder. "You've done good, man. Proud of you."
The words settle easy now, natural as breathing. "Thanks, brother."
Across the room, Holly catches my eye. That little smirk tugs at her lips—the one that says she's already run three scenarios ahead of me and has contingency plans for each one.
Everything is clicking into place.
And soon, when I ask her the question burning in my pockets, everything will be perfect.
Because the mistletoe might have started this, but I'm going to finish it.
I pocket my phone and head in Holly’s direction. At least whatever psychological warfare our mothers have planned, we're facing it together.
We meet at one of the overstuffed recliners, where she settles my lap.
Nick’s mom clears her throat and pulls a deck of cards out of nowhere, her smile nothing short of predatory. “Never Have I Ever?”
“I’m gonna need so much more alcohol for this,” Holly mutters against my neck. “We can’t unknow any of this.”
I stroke her spine, to soothe her or me, who the hell knows. “They’re our parents… how bad can it actually get?”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in a circle, drinks in hand. The parents are three shots deep, and things are spiraling. Fast.
And I regret ever uttering the words about how bad it can get to Holly.
“Never have I ever…” Mrs. McAdams pauses dramatically, “…had sex in public.”
Every single parent drinks.
“Jesus Christ,” Nick mutters, clutching his glass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
“The boathouse wasn’t public,” Mrs. McAdams protests. “It was… semi-private.”
Boathouse—right out of the fucking gate.
“Ellen!” My mom gasps, looking scandalized. “That was you?”
Eve, ever the documentarian, pulls out her phone. “Here we observe the mating habits of the wild boomers, establishing territory through strategic?—”
"Never have I ever," Nick interrupts desperately before flipping his card. He closes his eyes and blows out a breath. “...gotten caught watching porn."
Oh, that had to hurt.
Good.
Bout time he got zinged or once.
My mother's hand shoots up. "Oh! That reminds me of when we found Chance's browser history?—"
Jesus Christ.
The whiskey burns as I choke it down. "We are NOT discussing my browser history. MOVE ON.” How the hell did his zing find me at the speed of fucking light.
Besides, I watch my porn a whole lot differently these days. I’d like to think my tastes have matured. Refined. Aged like a fine wine.
Actually, I watch hers.
With her.
While she bosses me around.
I definitely have a kink for CEO McAdams unabashedly watching the dirty while she makes me follow her every command.
"Never have I ever gotten caught grinding on someone's leg while dancing," Eve continues, her reign of terror nowhere near complete.
"That was ONE TIME at the lodge Christmas party," my mother protests. "And we thought the supply closet was empty?—"
"I QUIT," Nick announces to no one in particular. "I'm actually quitting life."
Never have I ever," Charlie continues, clearly drunk on power now, but only power since she’s drinking ginger ale. “called out the wrong name during sex."
"That was YOUR fault," Mrs. McAdams points accusingly at her husband. "Who grows a mustache identical to their father’s?"
"WAIT A GODDAMN MINUTE?" Nick's voice cracks. "GRANDPA?"
Holly's practically crying with laughter now, her face nestled against my chest as she curls into me.
The one thing that could make it better is if we were alone and she was wearing my shirt.
She tips her face up to mine, eyes bright, that pretty mouth that looks fucking phenomenal working my cock, smiling up at me.
My heart does that wild flip again—the one that says she owns every piece of me. Cupping her chin, I can only stare down at her and wonder how the hell I got lucky enough for her to choose me.
I nod toward the door. Time to give her the gift burning a hole in my sixt?—
A crack thunders through the great hall as the lodge doors slam open, wind and snow gusting inside like a freaking movie trailer. Sierra storms in, all pale blond hair, fury, and a vintage camera slung around her neck like a weapon. She looks like she’s on a warpath, and I’m pretty sure Everett’s the target.
It was only a matter of time.
And can anyone say, fucking finally? Jesus.
“Everett Morgan, you absolute bastard!”
Everyone freezes.
Everett straightens, his easy grin shifting into something sharper, something I’ve never quite seen before and I’ve pretty much seen in all with him.
“Ah, Sierra,” he says, calm as ever, but there’s a spark in his voice, like he’s been expecting this. “You got the application with the renovation plans I take it?”
“Renovations?” she spits, stomping toward him like she’s ready to throw hands. “You’re destroying the historic integrity of?—”
“The lodge needs updating?—”
“That’s not updating—that’s personal.”
Sierra slaps her palms on the bar and climbs right up in his face.
On her hands and knees.
Not quite the power position she thinks it is. More like he’s going to get all sorts of ideas with her up there, but hey, it’s probably exactly what they need.
She jabs a finger into Everett’s chest, her fury reaching a fever pitch. “I’ve documented every historic detail of this lodge. You can’t just?—”
Everett finally notices his audience. His eyes flick to the rest of us, then back to Sierra. The spark in his expression shifts to something darker, quieter, like he’s drawing the line in the snow.
“Why don’t we discuss this somewhere more private?” he says, his voice low.
Sierra doesn’t budge. “Oh no, Everett. If you’re going to ruin this place, I want everyone to witness every shitty move and never let you forget.”
The lodge might survive the renovations, but this? This feels like the kind of storm you don’t see coming until it’s right on top of you.
Holly nudges me then, “Should we step in?”
“Not a chance. You want someone to interrupt our foreplay?” I shake my head and rest my chin on her hair. “Let ‘em sort it out.”
“I’m not sure they’ll survive.”
Brushing a kiss over her temple, my laugh rumbling over her skin elicits a shiver I’m all too familiar with. “Everett’s met his match. She’ll keep him in line.”
As Everett opens his mouth to argue, Sierra snaps a photo just inches from his face—flash and all—and hops off the bar muttering something about documenting every insult to the lodge’s history.
“Well, at least we’ll have pictures of the carnage,” Holly says with a laugh.
“Professional-grade, too.”
As Everett turns back to the bar, he catches us watching him. He raises an eyebrow, the grin sliding back into place like armor. “Something on your mind, McAdams?”
“Yeah,” she calls back. “Just wondering how long it’s gonna take her to make you eat that smug little smile.”
His laugh is easy, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. “Careful, Holly. You’re dangerously close to underestimating me.”
HOLLY
The hay crinkles under the tarp as Chance tugs me down beside him, my back pressed to his chest. The wagon creaks with our movement, a familiar sound that sends heat blooming in my cheeks.
"Earbuds?" he asks, his breath warm against my ear.
"Always." I pass him one, slipping the other into my ear. Fall Out Boy fills the silence between us, kicking off my playlist, and I can't help but smile.
His hand slides down to my hip. "I have something for you."
"Is it in one of your sixteen pockets?"
"Actually..." He leans back with his arms crossed behind his head, giving me that devastating grin that still makes my heart skip. "It's in all of them. Each pocket has a gift. You have to find them all."
"All sixteen?"
"Yup." He pops the 'p' with infuriating smugness. "Better get started, Squirt."
The first pocket yields something soft and silky. I pull it out, squinting in the low light. "Are these..."
"Manifestation panties." His voice drops low, sending shivers down my spine. "Check the word."
Written across the back in his familiar scrawl: SQUIRT
Of course this would be the pair I find first.
"There's more," he prompts when I just stare at them.
The next pocket produces another pair. OTIS
By the sixth pocket, my hands are shaking. The words come out of order, and I piece them together as a go: MY RIDE OR DIE
"Chance..."
"Keep going."
Eight pockets in: SQUIRT OTIS MY RIDE OR DIE HONEST FLAMIGO.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I reach for the thirteenth pocket: LET’S
Fourteen: YOU’RE
Fifteen: ME?
I pause at the final pocket, my fingers trembling. Chance's hand covers mine, warm and steady.
"Together?" he asks softly.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
We pull out the last pair together. MARRY
"Holly." His voice is rough with emotion as he cups my face in his hands. "Squirt, you're my ride or die.” His gaze drops to my mouth the way it always does. Only he doesn’t linger this time. This time he meets my eyes again, and there’s a sliver of vulnerability there.
“Let's make an honest flamingo out of Otis. Marry me?"
Tears blur my vision as I launch myself at him, knocking him back into the hay. "Yes. God, yes."
His kiss is fierce and tender all at once, full of promises and forever.
When he finally pulls back, he's grinning like an idiot. "Good, because there’s more.”
Cocooned under a tarp in a bed of hay, I open the single most gorgeous diamond I’ve ever seen.
My heart stutters, caught somewhere between disbelief and a wild, reckless kind of hope. My fingers tremble as I trace the pear-cut diamond—sharp on one side, soft and curved on the other. It’s beautiful, impossibly delicate like the whole thing could tip out of its setting with one wrong move.
But it doesn’t.
The intricate metalwork twists around the stone, clinging to it with a kind of fierce determination as if it knows exactly how precious it is. Every ridge, every groove, feels intentional like it was designed not just to hold the diamond but to honor it.
It’s breathtaking. Strong and fragile all at once. And as it gleams in the light, my breath catches in my throat.
Oh God. This is real.
Slipping the ring from the box, I hook it over my index finger—because he’s going to be the one to put it on me—and take his face in my hands. “I love you, soldier boy,” I murmur over his mouth.
“I love you too, Squirt.” He dips his head and nips at my throat as he deftly takes the ring and slides it on my ring finger.
Everything goes quiet as we stare down at the next chapter in our story. The music playing shifts as if it’s been in on the plan the whole time. Only it’s my playlist so that’s impossible.
The opening chords to Carry You Home drift in as if the song’s been in on the plan the whole time.
“Now,” he starts, the words a gentle rumble against my collar bone as he tastes every bit of my exposed skin—pretty much his favorite way to end the day, not that I hate it. “What do you say we get started christening these new panties."
I tilt my head, tucking my cheek against his as I wait for the tickling sensation when he hits this one spot—ahhhh, yeah, that one—goosebumps dance across my skin, all the way to the roots of my hair. “All sixteen pairs?"
His growl vibrates against my skin. "We've got all night, Squirt."
"Don't call me Squirt when you're about to—oh!"
His mouth claims mine, stealing the words, the breath, everything but this—us, together, forever.
Flipping me under him, my eyes land on the hammer overhead, in the same position as the night he nailed the mistletoe to the headboard. Next to it, our mistletoe watching over us like some kind of kinky guardian angel.
Just the way it should be.