EPILOGUE
ONE WEEK LATER
GREER
The New Year is a few days away, and Wilder Mountain feels quieter than it has in a long, long time.
And Brenton’s house is even more peaceful.
I’m curled on his couch under a thick wool blanket, my feet tucked beneath me, a mug of peppermint hot chocolate in my hands. Outside the window, snow drifts sparkle under the faint morning sun. A few new flakes drift lazily down, almost shy.
Inside, the fire crackles, everything is warm, and I feel as content as a kitten stretched out on a rug.
Brenton walks in from the kitchen carrying a plate of cinnamon rolls. They’re warm, gooey, and smell like I should propose to him on the spot.
He sets the plate down and sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch.
“You’re thinking very hard,” he says, nudging my leg.
“I’m thinking about cinnamon rolls.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, smiling because he knows me now. Really knows me. “And about something else.”
I try not to smile. I fail.
He slides an arm around my shoulders. I melt into him instantly, my head finding its place against his chest like it’s been waiting for this spot all along.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, wrapped up in warmth and woodsmoke and everything we’ve learned about each other these past weeks.
Finally, he clears his throat, sounding almost shy. “I, uh…got you something.”
I straighten. “Brenton, we agreed—no more presents until next year’s Secret Santa. Holt threatened to create a spreadsheet if we kept escalating.”
“I know,” he says. “But this isn’t for Secret Santa. This is for…us.”
He reaches under the couch cushion — like the world’s sexiest squirrel stashing treasures — and pulls out a small box.
My heart does an acrobatic flip.
“It’s not jewelry,” he adds quickly. “Not that kind of box.”
I flush. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—okay, maybe I was thinking that.”
He laughs softly and places the box in my hands.
I open it.
Inside is a custom planner cover.
Deep blue.
Soft leather.
Embossed in gold:
GREER ASHLEY EVENTS
—est. 2025—
My breath catches.
He watches me carefully, thumb brushing my shoulder. “You told me once you weren’t sure you were allowed to want things. Big things. So…I wanted you to have something that says you can.”
Emotion swells in my chest—full, warm, overwhelming.
“This is…” I whisper. “Brenton, this is beautiful.”
“There’s more,” he says, a little sheepish. “Inside the pocket.”
I slide a hand inside the inner lining and pull out a folded piece of paper.
It’s…a business license application.
Partially filled out.
Just waiting for my signature.
I look up at him.
He shrugs lightly. “Only if you want it. Only if you choose it.”
I blink rapidly because the alternative is crying, and I’m not sure I can cry gracefully with cinnamon roll frosting on my fingers.
“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting my chin up. “I want a future with you, Greer. A real one. Not just kisses and storms and storage rooms.”
I laugh wetly. “Storage rooms are nice.”
“They are,” he agrees, grinning, “but this is nicer.”
He taps my planner cover.
“You building your dreams. Me showing up. Us choosing each other even when it’s messy. That’s nicer.”
My heart is gone. Completely gone. Melted into a puddle on his flannel shirt.
I set the box aside and lean in to kiss him.
Soft. Slow.
The kind of kiss that feels like the beginning of something rather than the climax.
When we break apart, he presses his forehead to mine.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Warmth blooms under my skin like someone lit a candle inside me.
“I love you too.”
He exhales like he’s been holding those words in his lungs.
We curl together on the couch, the fire crackling, the storm outside gentling back into flakes. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my arm as I tuck myself against him.
And for the first time all season—
for the first time in years—
I feel completely at home.
Because he’s my home now.
And I’m his.
And whatever we build next — a business, a life, a new tradition — we’re building it together.
Read the rest of the Christmas on Wilder Mountain series.