EPILOGUE
LEITH MORGANS
I’ve always been good at reading people. Comes with the territory of running a hospitality empire. But watching Callum chase Jordie through my backyard with a garden hose, soaked and grinning, I realize some things don’t require reading at all.
They’re just obvious.
Jordie shrieks, barefoot, laughing so hard she nearly topples a deck chair. He catches her easily, and she looks up at him like he just solved the universe.
Disgustingly in love.
Their goldens go berserk—Roscoe hurls himself at the water spray, while Mango trots after Jordie.
“Oi,” I call from the veranda, beer in hand. “Some of us paid actual money for this landscaping.”
Callum cuts the water and grins up at me. “We’re done. Promise.”
Jordie crouches beside Roscoe, ruffling his ears, the diamond and gold on her finger catching the sunset.
“We should eat,” I call down. “Big day tomorrow.”
Callum scratches behind Mango’s ears. “Thanks for dog duty, by the way.”
I tip my beer toward them. “I also upgraded your flights to first class and booked you into the Luxeon Singapore’s presidential suite. You’re welcome. Bring me back a souvenir, yeah?”
Jordie smiles as she heads for the table. “If you’re lucky, we’ll bring home your godchild. But if the IVF doesn’t work, at least we’ll be trying in luxury.”
There’s no tension in the way she says it. Just honesty. Not desperation. Not obligation. Just something she wants, on her terms. Like she’s learned not to flinch when saying the hard things out loud.
“So,” I say, taking a swig from for my beer, “I take it the surrogacy shortlist didn’t exactly explode with candidates?”
Jordie snorts. “Unless you’ve been hiding a uterus from me, not really.”
I lean back in my chair. “Shame. I’m usually very good at solving problems by throwing money at them.”
“Yes, well.” Jordie tears a piece off her bread roll. “This is the one situation where money doesn’t buy us a uterus. Australia’s very committed to the whole altruism thing, which is lovely morally and deeply inconvenient in practice. Also, no one’s exactly lining up to offer.”
I arch a brow. “You’re telling me your charm doesn’t stretch that far?”
Callum glances at me over the rim of his glass. “Not into the realm of casual uterine lending, no.”
“What, no saintly cousin tucked away in Sydney?” I ask.
Callum takes a sip of his drink. “Cousin May would carry a grudge, maybe. Not our child. And Cousin Xie’s already eight children deep. I think asking any more of her uterus would qualify as a criminal offence.”
Jordie laughs into her juice. “Well. That feels like a fairly decisive no.”
Callum reaches for her hand without looking, like the movement lives somewhere below thought, and lifts it to his mouth. “So IVF it is,” he says against her knuckles. “Second time’s the charm.”
We settle at the long outdoor table. The air smells of soy, garlic, and slow-cooked magic.
Callum eyes the spread. “You’ve got quite the setup here.”
There’s adobo in a glossy pool of sauce, noodles loaded with vegetables and citrus wedges, stacked spring rolls, and a steaming tray of stew with peanut sauce and oxtail.
He grabs a spring roll, takes a bite, then visibly pauses. “Your chef’s outdone himself,” he says, mid-chew.
I shrug. “Not my regular guy. Someone recommended this Filipino caterer. Had Richard book her.”
I’m halfway through reading a text about another bloody delay on the Brisbane accommodation site. At this rate, I’ll finish the Rockhampton and Toowoomba sites before Brisbane even gets plumbing.
I’m mid-reply when an arm stretches across the table to set down another dish.
Jordie gasps. “Oh my God, those look awesome. What are they?”
“Bicol Express. Pork belly with coconut milk and chili. Not too spicy—I promise,” someone answers, soft-voiced, with the lilting cadence of someone raised on Tagalog lullabies and Sunday kitchens.
“What’s your name?” Jordie asks, zero shame.
There’s a pause. Then: “Julia,” she says, shyly.
Jordie claps her hands once, sharp and decisive. “Julia. I think we should be friends.”
I’m barely listening—still mid-text: I’ve submitted every form twice. What’s got council’s knickers in a bunch this time?
My father, that’s what.
Callum, mouth half-full, points his spring roll at me. “Hey, Leith. Amy Mastersen hasn’t shut up about you since the wedding. Can you just please go on one date with her so she stops harassing me and Jordie?”
I don’t even look up. “Wow. A woman who’s texted about me four times a week for a year. That doesn’t scream red flag at all. Hurry up and give me her number,” I deadpan.
Jordie raises an eyebrow. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to go on an actual date. One that doesn’t involve an NDA or room service.”
“I don’t date,” I mutter. “I outsource connection.”
She grins. “Spoken like a man who’s overdue for someone to ruin his life in a meaningful way.”
That earns her a snort from Callum and a glare from me. Neither of which does a damn thing to wipe the smug off her face.
I lean back, dry as toast and twice as unimpressed. “I’m never falling in love again,” I say flatly. “Never getting married. I’ll die rich, well-dressed, and alone surrounded by whiskey, luxury linen, and extremely well-compensated staff who’ll say nice things about me in the press release.”
Jordie just grins wider, like she has already bookmarked the page where I eat those words.
I glance down as my phone buzzes.
RICHARD
Sir, Council wants new environmental impact documents for the retaining wall.
I close my eyes briefly.
Fuck. I thought Lark had that sorted.
I’m still mentally composing a reply that involves firebombing the planning department when I sense someone beside me. An arm stretches, setting a tray of sticky rice pudding down the table.
“Mr. Morgans?” a voice says—low, lilting, polite. “Is everything to your liking?”
I glance up, intending to mutter a quick thanks. But the words never make it out.
Julia’s stunning in that non-conventional, quiet, warm way. The first spark of a fire you didn’t realize you needed. Loose knot of black hair, sun-warmed skin, eyes that make you forget whatever you were about to say.
I blink. Still haven’t said a word.
Jordie leans over to Julia, biting back a grin. “Sorry, Leith gets glitchy when he’s in the middle of business deals and is fiercely committed to never getting married. What do you think of that? Wild, right?”
Julia’s smile shifts into something softer, tinged with amusement, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in her gaze. “I think never is a long time.”
She walks away without waiting for a reply.
My eyes follow her until she disappears behind the corner.
Maybe never wasn’t as permanent as I thought.