Epilogue
CARMEN
Six months later, the McCall Cabins are fully booked for Christmas.
Every single one. All six. For the first time in three years, according to the reservation book Owen's mother started keeping in a leather journal that lives on the kitchen shelf between her cookbooks and a framed photograph of Owen's parents standing on this exact porch.
Cabin one has a family of five from Denver.
Cabin two has a couple celebrating their anniversary.
Three and four have a group of girlfriends doing a winter retreat.
Five has a nature photographer who found us through Nora Kincaid's article series in some travel magazine.
Cabin six, the one at the end of the row closest to the creek, has a woman arriving alone tomorrow who booked for a full month.
"She sounded exhausted on the phone," Owen tells me over dinner. Our dinner. At our table, in our kitchen, in the house that's been ours since October when he added my name to the deed. "Said she needs somewhere quiet to figure out her life."
"Sound familiar?"
That slow grin. The one that starts at the corner of his mouth and works its way across his whole face. "Might've left a jar of soup on her porch."
"Owen. She hasn't even arrived yet."
"Gotta make a good impression."
The renovation loan came through in August. Colt co-signed without blinking. Rhett brought his crew up for the roof on cabin two, finished in four days, ate every biscuit Mabel sent up the mountain. The new water heater went in September. The generator in October.
Between Owen's cousins, Hank's plumbing expertise, Wade Sutton's donation of enough cider to keep guests happy through December, this town rebuilt the McCall Cabins with the same stubborn efficiency they apply to everything.
Mabel organized a meal train during the renovation weeks that kept us fed without us ever asking.
Biscuits on the porch. Casseroles in the fridge.
A sticky note from Beth Porter Kincaid with a recipe for banana bread and a P.S.
that said Roman says welcome to the family.
He used different words but I cleaned it up.
My nursing license transferred to Colorado in November.
Three shifts a week at the small clinic in Durango, working for a doctor who doesn't page me at three in the morning because emergencies out here look different.
Broken bones from ski accidents. Altitude sickness.
The occasional rancher who won't admit he needs stitches until his wife drives him in.
The rest of my week belongs to the cabins. To Owen. To this life that wasn't supposed to be mine but fits so perfectly it makes my chest ache.
"Carmen."
Looking up from the reservation book, I find him standing in the kitchen doorway. Flannel unbuttoned over a thermal. Hair damp from the shower. Holding a small box.
Not a ring box. Too big for that. Rectangular, wrapped in brown paper. My name written across the front in his careful printing.
"It's not Christmas yet."
"Open it."
Peeling back the paper, I lift the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue, is a brass nameplate. Small, polished, engraved in clean letters.
MCCALL CABINS EST. 1972 OWEN & CARMEN MCCALL
My throat closes.
"I had Ezra Redwood make it." Owen's voice is quiet. Steady. "Figured the front sign could use an update."
Running my thumb over the engraving, I trace the letters of my name next to his. Carmen McCall. Not Reyes. McCall. Which means...
"Owen."
"Before you say anything." He pulls something else from his back pocket. A folded piece of paper, worn soft from being carried. Opening it, he holds it up.
The Mountain Match profile. The ad that brought me here. Printed out, creased from folding, clearly read more than once.
"I found it the day you showed it to me on your phone.
Printed it that night. Been carrying it ever since.
" His hand isn't steady when he sets it on the counter.
"Whoever wrote this knew something I didn't. That I needed a partner.
That I couldn't do this alone. That the right woman wasn't gonna compete with the mountain.
She was gonna make it bigger by being in it. "
Tears blur the nameplate. My fingers tighten around the box.
"So this is me asking." Closing the distance between us, he takes the box from my hands. Sets it on the counter. Takes my face in both palms, rough calluses on my cheeks, thumbs wiping the tears I can't stop. "Will you be a McCall? Officially. Permanently. On the sign, on the deed, on everything."
"Yes." The word comes out broken. Wet. "Yes, you ridiculous man."
His mouth finds mine. Warm, firm, tasting like coffee and the apple cider Mabel spiked when she sent it up yesterday. Kissing Owen McCall still makes my knees weak six months in. Probably always will.
"Bedroom," I mumble against his lips.
"Guests arrive tomorrow morning."
"Then we've got tonight."
He lifts me onto the counter. My legs wrap around his waist. His hands slide under my shirt, palms flat on my bare back, pulling me against his chest. My fingers work the buttons on his flannel. Push it off his shoulders. The thermal follows.
Bare-chested Owen in the kitchen light makes my mouth water every time. Broad, solid, dusted with hair that trails from his chest down his stomach into his jeans. Leaning forward, I press my mouth to his collarbone. His breath hitches.
"Off." His fingers hook the hem of my shirt. Pull it over my head. No bra tonight because I'd been getting ready for bed when he pulled out the nameplate. His hands cup my breasts immediately, thumbs circling my nipples until they peak against his palms.
"Carmen." Rough. Low. My name in his mouth is its own kind of foreplay.
Scooping me off the counter, he carries me down the hallway. My back hits the mattress. He strips my sleep shorts down my legs, tosses them. Kneels at the edge of the bed. Pulls me toward him by my hips until my ass is right at the edge, legs over his shoulders.
The first lick is slow. Flat tongue, base to tip, ending on my clit with the kind of focused pressure that makes my hips buck. His hands pin my thighs open. Hold me there while his mouth works.
"You taste so good." Murmured against my pussy, his breath hot on sensitive skin. Two fingers slide inside me, curling forward. "So fucking good, Carmen."
The orgasm builds fast. His tongue circling my clit, his fingers thrusting deep, the obscene wet sounds filling the bedroom. When I come, it's with my hand in his hair pulling hard enough to make him groan.
"Get up here."
Rising, he unbuttons his jeans. Pushes them down with his boxers.
His cock springs free, thick, hard, a bead of moisture at the head.
Grabbing a condom from the nightstand, he rolls it on while I watch from the pillows.
The visual never gets old. Owen's hands on his own cock, his jaw tight, his eyes on my body spread across his bed.
"Turn over."
A thrill shoots through me. Rolling onto my stomach, I push up on my hands and knees. His hand runs down my spine. Over my ass. Grips my hip. The head of his cock presses against me, slides through the wetness, finds my entrance.
He pushes in from behind in one long stroke. Deep. Full. My arms give out, dropping me to my elbows, and the angle shifts to something that makes me cry out into the pillow.
"Right there?" His voice is wrecked. Both hands on my hips, pulling me back onto him with every thrust.
"Don't stop. God, don't stop."
His pace builds. Hard, deep strokes that rock me forward on the bed. One hand slides between my legs from behind, fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. My face presses into the pillow. His name comes out muffled against the cotton.
"Come for me." Commanding. Rough. His hips snapping forward, his fingers relentless on my clit. "Let me feel you."
The orgasm rips through me. White-hot, full-body, clenching so hard around his cock that he swears behind me. His rhythm breaks. His hands grip my hips bruising-tight as he follows me over, burying deep with a groan that vibrates through both of us.
For a long time after, we lie tangled. His chest against my back. Arm around my waist. Hand flat on my stomach. Breathing together. The cabin is warm. Snow falls silently outside the window, fat flakes catching the porch light.
"You left the porch light on."
"Habit." His mouth presses to my shoulder. "Don't need it anymore, though."
"Why not?"
"Because you're already home."
Pressing back against him, I close my eyes.
His heartbeat steady against my spine. The creek running outside.
Snow on the roof. Six cabins full of guests arriving tomorrow to a mountain property that almost got sold to a developer, saved by a family that showed up when their stubborn cousin finally asked for help.
My phone glows on the nightstand.
Cat:
Soooo when's the wedding??? I need at least 3 months notice for a dress. Also Owen's cousin Colt is FINE. Just saying.
Wait. Is this a McCall thing? Do they all look like that??
Me:
Go to sleep, Cat.
Cat:
ANSWER THE QUESTION CARMEN
Laughing into Owen's chest, I show him the screen. His laugh rumbles through me. Deep. Warm.
"Your sister's gonna fit right in."
Settling the phone back on the nightstand, I pull his arm tighter around me.
The nameplate sits on the kitchen counter waiting to be hung.
The Mountain Match ad is folded in the drawer beside it.
Tomorrow, guests arrive. Next week, Cat flies in to help with the Christmas rush. Next month, the new year starts.
My hands are steady. Have been for months.
Outside, the snow keeps falling on Bear Creek Valley. The porch light clicks off.
We're already home.