Epilogue
MICHAEL TWO YEARS LATER
The yacht was quiet in a way it had never been that first night.
No strangers. No threats. No one who wanted anything from me except the woman walking toward me now.
I stood at the railing in black Armani, sleeves rolled to my forearms, the same way I’d been dressed the night she first crashed into me. A bottle of the exact French champagne I’d poured for her two years ago sat in a silver bucket at my side, already sweating in the warm July air.
Fireworks had just started over Bayview, soft gold and white blooms reflecting on the black water.
Then I saw her.
Blonde. Pale gold in the midnight moonlight. Barefoot, heels dangling from one hand, a soft white dress that moved against her thighs with every step. She looked exactly like she had that first night — except this time she wasn’t running.
My heart stopped.
Exactly the same way it had the first time.
I met her at the top of the gangway. She smiled up at me, slow and knowing, and everything in my chest pulled tight.
“You’re late,” I said, voice low.
“I was kissing the boys goodnight.” She stepped into me, palms sliding up the front of my shirt. “Bennett made Brett promise to read two books. Boone just wanted to sleep on his chest. Claire looked very pleased with herself.”
I huffed a quiet laugh and rested my hands on her hips. “They’re in good hands.”
“They are.” She rose onto her toes, mouth brushing mine. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
I kissed her slowly. Deeply. The kind of kiss that still felt like the first time and the last time all at once. When I finally pulled back, I reached for the champagne without looking away from her.
The cork came free with a soft, perfect pop. I poured two glasses, handed her one, and watched the way the bubbles caught the moonlight against her mouth as she drank.
“You never stayed on the boat that night,” I said quietly. “You ran.”
Her eyes softened. “I know.”
“You’re not running now.”
“No.” She set her glass down, took mine from my hand, and placed it beside hers. “I’m not. We’ve done some crazy shit these past few years.”
“We have.”
“Remember Vegas?”
“How could I ever forget?”
“Now look at us, parents to toddlers. Our wild days over…”
“They’re not over baby. What do you think tonight is? Our anniversary. July 4. Hot tub, champagne… me…”
“My dirty mob boss, lover.”
“Always,” I smirked, tugging her closer.
I lifted her the same way I had years ago and carried her to the jacuzzi on the upper deck.
The water was already hot, steam rising into the cool night air.
I set her on her feet, unzipped her dress, and let it fall.
She stood in front of me in nothing but moonlight and the small gold chain she never took off.
I stripped out of the Armani while she watched, then stepped into the water and pulled her in with me.
She straddled my lap slowly, the heat of the water nothing compared to the heat of her.
I kissed her throat, her collarbone, the soft place behind her ear, while my hands mapped every familiar curve like I was still learning her.
When I finally pushed inside her, we both went still for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.
“Michael—”
“I’ve got you,” I murmured against her mouth. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”
We moved together slowly. Deep. Unhurried.
Every roll of her hips pulled a low sound from my chest. Every time I thrust up into her she gasped against my lips like it was still new.
The fireworks continued above us, gold and white and silent from this distance, painting her wet skin in brief flashes of light.
I kept one hand tangled in her hair and the other locked on her hip, guiding her, holding her, making sure she felt every inch of what she did to me.
When she came, it was quiet and shaking, her face buried in my neck, my name a broken whisper against my skin.
I followed her over the edge with a low groan, arms banding tight around her as pleasure pulled through me in long, heavy waves.
For a long time afterward we stayed just like that — her still in my lap, my arms locked around her, the water lapping gently around us, fireworks fading into the distance.
Kate lifted her head and looked at me, eyes soft and dark.
“Full circle,” she whispered.
I brushed wet strands of gold hair from her face and kissed her once, slow and certain.
“No,” I said. “This is the part we get to keep.”
She smiled against my mouth, and somewhere over the water the last of the fireworks bloomed and disappeared.
I stayed.
And this time, so did she.
We still have the penthouse.
Some nights, after the boys are down and the cabin feels too quiet, we drive into town and sleep with the floor-to-ceiling windows open to the harbor.
The view is still the best in Bayview — the river, the lights, the dark curve of the coast. From my office on the top floor I can see the amphitheater clearly.
On concert nights I leave the doors open so the music drifts in while I work.
Sometimes I stop everything and just watch.
Students on stage. Locals filling the stone seats.
Tourists who came for the casinos and stayed for the sound.
The day we cut the ribbon remains one of the three proudest moments of my life.
The others are the morning I married her the first time in Vegas, and the nights our sons were born.
I still don’t understand how I got this lucky. Most days I feel undeserving of all of it—the woman, the boys, the peace. But I take it anyway. I hold it carefully.
What started as her dream has changed more than either of us expected.
The music school didn’t just bring high rollers looking for a new kind of night.
It brought the town back. High end art galleries opened along the waterfront.
Small theaters. Bookshops that stay open late.
Restaurants that used to cater only to money now stay full because people come for the art as much as the food.
Bayview is no longer just a place to shop and spend. It has become something rarer.
People travel from all over the world now—to hear the land sing.