Epilogue
Two years later…
Two years after the cameras left, the Stark House finally felt like it was telling the truth.
Poppy stood barefoot in the hallway, one hand braced against the wall, the other steadying Lavender as she pressed her baby heels flat against the door trim.
The wood still held the penciled marks of Poppy’s childhood—ages, dates, a few crooked lines where Aunt Opal had insisted they measure twice “for posterity.”
Lavender was all soft edges and bright intent, a ten-month-old with wide, curious eyes that missed nothing and a shock of dark curly dark that refused to lie flat, no matter how many times Poppy smoothed it down.
She had her mother’s expressive brows and her father’s determined chin, a combination that made even her quiet moments feel like she was gearing up for something important.
There was a seriousness to the way she studied the world—like she was cataloging it for later—followed by sudden, explosive joy when she decided she liked what she saw.
Already, she carried herself like a child who expected life to meet her halfway.
“Okay,” Poppy murmured. “Stand tall, bug.”
Lavender blinked at her, serious as a tiny judge, then leaned back with a wobble that made Decker instinctively reach out.
“She’s sturdier than she looks,” Poppy said, smiling without looking at him.
“That’s what you said about the house before the plumbing exploded,” Decker replied.
She snorted. “That was sabotage.”
He crouched beside them, pencil ready. “Still feels weird that we’re adding to this side,” he said quietly, nodding toward the empty stretch of trim opposite Poppy’s childhood marks. “Like history expanding.”
Poppy glanced down at Lavender, then back at the wall. “I used to look at these and feel like they were proof I survived,” she said. “Now it just feels like proof we stayed.”
Decker’s mouth softened. “Best fix up ever.”
They marked the line together—Lavender’s height, today’s date, her name written in Decker’s careful block letters.
“There,” he said. “Official.”
Lavender chose that moment to twist, clearly offended by the concept of stillness. She pitched forward, arms windmilling.
“Oh—Lav—” Poppy started.
But Taters was already there.
Built like a horse but spotted like a cow, Taters had become Lavender’s best friend, protector and, most importantly, family.
The dog planted himself directly in front of her, broad back presented like a living handrail. Lavender grabbed fistfuls of fur, steadied, then—astonished—let go.
One step.
Then another.
The hallway held its breath.
Lavender squealed, delighted by her own bravery, and lurched forward again, Taters pacing beside her like a very patient mobility aid. She laughed—pure, unfiltered joy—and took off down the hall, half-running, half-falling, entirely fearless.
Poppy clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god. She’s walking.”
Decker laughed, loud and stunned. “That’s my kid. Absolutely zero interest in easing into anything.”
Lavender toddled faster, one hand still grazing Taters’s side, the other reaching for the world like it owed her something wonderful.
Decker shook his head. “Just like her mom. Too excited by life to sit still.”
Poppy shot him a look over her shoulder. “You fell in love with that.”
“I did,” he said simply. “Still am.”
The front door opened before either of them could say more.
“Well,” Aunt Opal announced, sweeping into the room dressed to the nines, every detail of her outfit intentional and impeccably styled.
She carried herself with the effortless confidence of a woman accustomed to being noticed—and obeyed.
There was mischief in her eyes, the kind that promised she was always three steps ahead of everyone else.
“I see I’ve missed something monumental,” she finished and stepped aside to reveal a baby boy balanced on her hip—round-cheeked, curious-eyed, already assessing the room like he owned it.
“Opal,” Poppy groaned. “No.”
Decker squinted. “Is that—”
“William,” Opal said proudly. “Eleven months. Excellent temperament. Sleeps through the night. Likes dogs.”
“Where did you get that kid?” Decker asked.
“I borrowed him from my retirement community. He’s the grandson of my friend.”
Lavender skidded to a stop, stared at the new arrival, then toddled toward him with interest.
Opal beamed. “I’m thinking Lavender’s perfect match.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Poppy said.
Decker laughed. “We are not starting this already.”
Opal waved them off. “Nonsense. I’m merely observing patterns. Chemistry. Fate.”
Lavender reached William, promptly plopped onto her bottom, and offered him Taters’s tail like a gift.
William grabbed it.
Everyone groaned in unison.
Opal smiled, victorious. “See? Electric.”
Poppy dropped her head onto Decker’s shoulder. “I’m changing the locks.”
Decker kissed her hair. “Too late. The matchmaker’s back.”
And in the middle of the hallway—between old pencil marks and new, between laughter and chaos and the quiet miracle of staying—the house held all of it.
Want more Poppy and Decker? Become a VIP member and get
access to bonus material, giveaways, and so much more.
SIGN ME UP
Read on for a sneak peek at book 1 in my Pine Ridge series,
The One Who Saw Her: Boone
Chapter One
Vivian Calder always thought rock bottom would feel louder—like a dramatic crash or at least a satisfying cinematic thud.
Instead, it was quiet. Just her in her mother’s guest room, surrounded by half-packed boxes and the faint hum of the air conditioner that sounded suspiciously like judgment.
She needed to make serious life decisions because in thirty days her life would be packed up and moving on, whether she wanted it to or not.
And if she wasn’t careful, she’d be back in this room—where dreams went to suffocate under floral bedspreads.
She stared at her to-do list she’d scribed in her phone’s planner, the one that had started with “Get it together” and somehow branched into entire ecosystem of impossible expectations.
Find a place to live. Pay off credit cards.
Figure out who you are. The last one had three question marks after it, which felt both ambitious and wildly optimistic for a Tuesday afternoon.
Her mother had called this Vivi’s “phoenix era” but Vivi suspected she was more like a pigeon—stubbornly circling the block hoping someone would drop a french fry.
She was trying, though. She’d stopped doom scrolling her not-quite-an-ex-of-a-boyfriend’s Instagram and had only cried twice this week—once over an overdraft fee and once over a sad puppy video.
She’d even bought a self-help app with an aggressively positive title: Project Glow Up.
Now she stood in front of a coffee shop in a one-stoplight town, far away from the bright lights from New York, wondering how her life had come to this. How her world had boiled down to this one, hastily made decision.
Vivi hadn’t so much as entered Espresso Yourself coffee house before her life detonated before her very eyes.
One second, she was gliding toward the door—head high, latte order rehearsed, pretending she wasn’t a woman whose life had just gone up in flames—and the next, her suitcase caught the doorframe, teetered and then zipper gave and the suitcase burst open like an emotional pinata.
Lacy bras, travel-size shampoos, and one rogue pair of yoga pants shot across the floor, scattering under tables like confetti at her own humiliation party.
How had she arrived in the one-stop town?
Her life-coach app had challenged her to do something terrifying.
So instead of adulting and facing her problems head on, she’d hopped on a plane—then a bus—then walked to the nearest open shop.
Which was how she, a woman who was staring down thirty without an exit strategy, was in Pine Ridge, Montana instead of Singapore with her not-quite-an-ex-of-a boyfriend.
“Well,” she muttered, crouching to gather her life off the tile. “Nothing says ‘fresh start’ like flashing your underwear before caffeine.” Vivi stood and gave a self-conscious wiggle of the fingers. It was like Elvis himself had entered the building. “Am I right?”
The patrons sat in complete hush.
Vivi’s throat bobbed, betraying her cool-city-girl act. Glancing around at the crowd of regulars staring, her heart thumped in her chest like a drumline gone rogue.
“Everyone, mind your own business,” a barista said and the chatter ensued.
Vivi drug her suitcase to the ‘Order Here’ line. “Thank you,” she said to the barista.
She was tall and willowy like a model, but carried herself like someone who broke up bar fights for fun, and moved like someone who wasn’t afraid to jump into chaos.
Her black hair was in a messy ponytail peeking out from beneath a RULE #1: DON’T ANNOY ME ballcap.
Her long black sleeves were rolled up enough to see an intricate, black and white, tattoo of a peony that covered her entire forearm—and a smaller one on the inside of her wrist that looked unfinished.
“Name’s Joannah Blue, but you can call me Jo,” she said. “I have zero tolerance for bullshit, zero fucks to give, and zero time to act like your therapist.”
“My phone is my therapist.” Vivi held up her trusted friend, Glow—the app that was supposed to change her life. Or at least change her enough to get her life in order and have her own Eat, Pray Love moment.
“Then we’re on the same page. Now, what can I get you?”
“An iced pumpkin-spice latte, half-calf, non-fat, with a whipped cream topper. Today is special so I’m going big.”
Jo didn’t seem interested in the slightest. “Black it is. Do you want sugar with that? No? Great.” She was already headed toward the back counter and Vivi wondered what it must feel like to move with such confidence.
“But…”
A man with Einstein hair, Scorsese brows, and biceps like Paul Bunyan pointed to a sign above the hung beside the menu with had coffees listed by region.
House Rules