Chapter 23 #2
"You were all in on this," I accused, staring at my family—every single one of them grinning like they'd pulled off a bank heist. Even Owen was smiling. Actually smiling.
"Every last one of us," Maggie said, absolutely unashamed. "She called last night. We’ve been scrambling ever since. You’re welcome."
"Last night," I echoed, stunned. "You all found out last night?"
Clay snorted. "And it was still the longest damn twenty-four hours of my life. Do you know how hard it is to keep a secret from you? You hover."
"I should arrest all of you for conspiracy."
"Arrest us later," Ivy said, waving him off. "Let the woman sing another song."
The crowd was chanting “Encore!”—loud, rhythmic, unstoppable—and Stephy turned toward me, eyebrows lifted in a question that hit me straight in the chest.
"One more," I said. "Then we're going home."
She kissed me quick, tasting like promises and forever, then bounded back onto the stage. "This one's not mine, but it seems appropriate. It's a little bit hokey, and it's for everyone who's ever found their way home."
She started playing "Your Still the One” by Shania Twain, and I stood there watching her, this woman who'd chosen me, chosen this life, chosen to come home. The bar was swaying along, couples holding each other, and I saw Tim's brother wiping his eyes.
Wyatt appeared at my elbow. "You good?"
"Better than good."
"She gave up everything for this."
"No," I said, watching her sing, her face glowing with joy. "She gave up nothing that mattered for everything that does."
"You gonna marry that girl?"
"As fast as she'll let me."
When the song ended, she came back to me through a sea of congratulations and welcomes home. The whole town wanted to hug her, tell her how glad they were she was back, how perfect we were together. She handled it all with grace, but I could see her getting overwhelmed.
"Time to go," I announced, wrapping my arm around her protectively.
We left together, my arm around her, her guitar in her free hand. The whole pub cheered as we walked out, and someone started playing "Wagon Wheel" on the jukebox, and I could hear the party continuing without us.
In my truck—our truck now—she took my hand, interlacing our fingers.
"I bought out my contracts," she said as I drove us home. "All of them. I'm free."
"What did that cost you?"
“A lot. I’m practically broke now,” she laughed. “But it was worth every penny."
"Steph—"
"I can make money playing small venues, writing songs for other artists, maybe teaching. But I can do it from here. From home. I already have three gigs booked at places within driving distance. Small, intimate venues where I can play my music, not Stevie Wilson's."
"Our home," I corrected, bringing her hand to my lips.
"Our home," she agreed. "Though I need to get my stuff from storage. It's not much—just my guitars, some clothes, my notebooks."
"We'll get it all. Make room for whatever you need."
"I don't need much. Just you. Just this."
As we drove through the darkness toward the ranch, toward our life, she told me everything about LA, about the lawyers, about closing that chapter completely.
"No regrets?" I asked as we pulled through the ranch gates.
"Only one."
My heart clenched. "What?"
"That it took me so long to figure out what really mattered."
I lifted her hand to my lips. "You're here now. That's all that counts."
"I'm here now," she repeated, like a vow. "And I'm never leaving again."
When we pulled up to the ranch, Poet was at the fence, whinnying like she'd known Stephy was coming. The horse was practically dancing, tossing her head, making sounds I'd never heard her make.
"Hey, pretty girl," Stephy called out, jumping from the truck. "I told you I'd come back."
I watched them reunite—Stephy's arms around Poet's neck, the horse nuzzling her like she was checking she was real. This was right. This was how it was supposed to be.
The storm was rolling in the way Texas storms do—slow at first, a distant flicker on the horizon, then building heat in the air like a secret.
We sat on the porch swing with two glasses of whiskey, our legs tangled, her head against my shoulder, the whole world dipped in that honey-gold light right before the sky breaks open.
This had always been our thing—storms. Watching them gather, feeling the electricity hum through the air, the promise of something wild and unstoppable moving toward us. Tonight it felt different. Like the storm wasn’t a threat but a celebration. A welcome home.
“You hear that?” I murmured, brushing my thumb along the inside of her wrist, right where her pulse fluttered. “Sky’s talking to us.”
“It sounds like it’s saying ‘I missed you,’” she whispered, her breath warm against my neck.
I turned my head and kissed her temple, slow and lingering. “Storm has good taste.”
She laughed softly, then went quiet again, watching the horizon where lightning stitched the clouds together. The wind picked up, lifting a strand of her hair across my lips. I tucked it gently behind her ear.
“I love you,” she said, barely audible, like it was a secret just for me and the night.
“I love you more,” I murmured back, letting my hand slip to the curve of her thigh. “And you should know something.”
“Mm?” she asked, tipping her face up toward mine, eyes glowing in the storm’s light.
“You’re gonna marry me soon.”
She froze—not afraid, just…full. Her breath caught, her eyes went soft, and something in her expression opened like a door.
“Oh,” she whispered, almost breathless. “Am I?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out low, certain, steady. “Didn’t figure I needed to ask. Feels like we’ve both known for a long time.”
Her hand slid up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt like she needed the anchor. Emotion shimmered in her eyes—recognition, relief, love so deep it felt like déjà vu.
“It’s only ever been you,” she said quietly. No teasing, no hesitation. Just truth. “It was always you, Lee.”
Those words hit me like a hand to the heart—gentle, holy, final.
She lifted her face, brushing her lips over mine, soft as a promise. “And yes,” she murmured. “You’re right.”
Her forehead rested against mine, breaths mingling, the whole world narrowing to the space between us. “Whenever you ask…my answer’s already yes.”
Thunder cracked again, rolling across the fields, and the porch lights flickered like even the damn house knew what was happening between us. I tugged her closer, meaning to pull her inside, away from the storm—but she stopped, her hand tightening on mine.
“Wait,” she whispered.
Her eyes lifted to mine, wide and wanting, and hell, if that didn’t hit me straight in the chest. Lower, too. Rain started to fall, soft at first, pattering on the tin roof, the scent of wet cedar rising up around us.
She sat back on the porch swing, tugging me by the belt loop until I stood right in front of her. Her knees pressed to my thighs, her breath warm on my shirt as she looked up at me like I was something she’d been starving for.
“Steph…” My voice came out rough, already breaking on her name.
“Come here,” she said—soft, sure, a command wrapped in silk.
I did. Hell, I couldn’t have stopped myself if a tornado dropped straight into the front yard. I sank to my knees in front of her, palms sliding up her thighs like they were finding their way home.
Thunder cracked again. She shivered. Not because of the storm.
“What do you need, baby?” The words scraped out of me. I needed to hear it from her mouth—needed it like air.
Her fingers slipped into my hair, gentle at first, then firmer, tugging just enough to knock my pulse sideways. “You owe me porch sex,” she giggled, the sound smoky and wicked. Then she framed my face in her hands, bringing me close.
“I want you.” A kiss to my forehead. “Every day.” A kiss to my cheek. “Always.” My nose.“Forever.” My neck. “And ever.” The corner of my mouth.
Then, quiet and claiming, on my lips. “Mine.”
“Yes,” I breathed. No hesitation. No doubt. Just truth.
I pushed her skirt higher on her thighs, just enough for my fingers to find heat—slick, ready heat that punched the air right out of me. “Christ,” I muttered, exhaling hard as I slid two fingers inside, slow, testing.
She arched off the swing like she’d been starving for that exact touch.
“Damn, sweetheart.” My forehead dropped to her thigh, breath shaking. “So wet for me.”
My hand kept working her, slow and deep, while I turned my head and pressed my mouth to the soft inside of her thigh. Her breath hitched—sharp, desperate—and that sound alone damn near undid me.
I kissed her again, higher this time. Then again. Slow, worshipful, deliberate.
Her skin was warm under my mouth, trembling under every touch. I dragged my lips along the curve of her thigh, letting my stubble scrape her just enough to make her gasp. She tasted like heat and rain and Steph—all of it hitting me in one punch to the chest.
“Liam…” My name came out on a whine, thready and wanting.
I slid my free hand up, spreading her for me, my thumb brushing her clit just right as I kissed higher, inch by inch, like I had all the time in the damn world. Her fingers tightened in my hair, guiding me, pleading without a word.
I nipped gently at the tender spot near the crease of her hip. She stuttered a moan. My control snapped a little.
“Sweetheart,” I murmured against her skin, my voice nothing but gravel and want, “I could spend all night right here.”
Her hips lifted toward me, offering herself, trusting me.
I kissed up—slow, reverent, claiming—until my mouth replaced my thumb, working in tandem with my fingers.
Stephy’s hand threaded through my hair, pressing my face into her. A needy sound left her, and I couldn’t stop my smile. My tongue flicked over her clit, fingers curving up against that spot that made her whimper.
She gasped. Her body went tight, her hand fisting my hair. “Right there!”
“Come for me,” I murmured against her skin. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
She broke apart with a soft cry, shaking under my hands, her thighs trembling around my shoulders. I held her through it, slow strokes easing her down until she sagged against the swing, breathing hard.
Lightning flashed across her face, lighting her up like something holy.
I stood, scooped her into my arms—because there was no universe where I wasn’t getting her inside now—and she melted against me, still shaking.
“Bedroom,” she whispered against my throat.
“Yeah,” I growled, carrying her through the door, the storm raging behind us. “Not anywhere near done with you.”
We moved inside as the sky finally opened—rain slamming against the roof, wind rattling the windows, the world turning wild and electric. I closed the door behind us, the sound of the storm muffling into a steady roar as I backed her into the living room, her hands already sliding under my shirt.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” I breathed against her mouth.
She kissed me like she’d been missing breath for weeks and finally found it again. Like coming home didn’t just mean a place—it meant a person.
Me. Her person. Just like she was mine.
The storm raged outside while we made our way to the bedroom, shedding clothes and weeks of fear, rediscovering each other in touches and whispers and promises spoken against skin.
And when I finally laid her back on our bed—her home, our home—I knew with bone-deep certainty: The wandering was over. The waiting was done.
She was home. And I was never letting her go again.