Epilogue
Merry
Christmas Eve in Mercury Ridge feels different than it does anywhere else.
The snow is fresh again, soft and quiet, blanketing the mountain in white that looks almost blue in the fading light.
The town glows with lights and garland, the square filled with laughter and the low hum of carols drifting through the cold air.
Children chase each other around the gazebo while their parents sip hot cider and cocoa from the stand set up near the tree.
I stop by the mercantile, accepting hugs and knowing smiles from Agnes and the other townspeople who’ve already heard that I’m Rowan’s girl.
Word travels fast in a small town.
"You look happy," Agnes says, studying me with those sharp eyes.
"I am," I tell her.
"Good." She pats my hand. "My son needed someone like you."
I laugh. “Thanks for playing matchmaker.”
By the time I drive back up the mountain, dusk has settled in, turning the sky a deep, velvety blue.
The first stars blink on overhead, and the moon is already rising, fat and silver.
Rowan's cabin comes into view just as the Christmas lights he strung along the porch rail flicker on—a surprise addition he must have made while I was in town.
Smoke curls from the chimney like a welcome signal.
Home.
The word is still new, but it already fits. Like everything else here, it's simple and true.
Inside, the cabin is warm and bright. A wreath hangs on the door, on that Rowan made just for us. Pine, cedar, winterberry, and a simple velvet ribbon in deep red. No frills. No shortcuts. Perfect in its quiet way.
Rowan looks up from the hearth when I step inside, his mouth curving into that familiar, steady smile that I've come to crave. “You’re home.”
"I’m home," I say, shrugging out of my coat.
He crosses the room in a few long strides and pulls me into his arms, kissing me slow and sure, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"How was town?" he asks when we finally break apart.
"Festive," I say. "And a little chaotic. Your mom invited us to Christmas dinner tomorrow.”
He nods, unsurprised. "We can do that."
We. The word still gives me a little thrill.
I glance around the cabin, taking in the small changes we've made together over the past few weeks.
Extra hooks by the door for both our coats.
A second mug always waiting on the counter.
A stack of order forms tucked neatly beside his workbench, my handwriting mixed in with his.
My grandmother's quilt draped over the back of the couch.
Books I brought from home shelved next to his field guides.
The space is ours now.
"I have a little something for you," Rowan says, reaching behind the small tree we decorated together—a scrappy little pine we'd cut from the property, adorned with handmade ornaments and strung cranberries.
He pulls out a small wrapped package and hands it to me.
I open it carefully, my fingers fumbling slightly with the ribbon. Inside is a wooden box, smooth and perfectly crafted. When I lift the lid, I find a set of clippers—professional grade. I look at him with a raised eyebrow. “You trust me to work on the wreaths?”
"A pro has her own tools,” he says.
My throat tightens. It's not just the gift, it's what it represents. A permanent place here. An acknowledgment that this isn't temporary.
"Thank you," I whisper, setting the box aside so I can pull him into a kiss.
"Your turn," I say when we break apart.
I hand him the package I've been hiding in my bag. He unwraps it with the same care I used, and when he opens the box, he goes still.
Inside is a leather-bound journal, the kind with thick, unlined pages. On the first page, I've written: For plans, dreams, and everything we'll build together.
He runs his fingers over the inscription, then looks up at me. The expression on his face is raw and open. There’s not even a trace of grumpiness.
"This is perfect," he says roughly.
We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, and I know we're both thinking the same thing: how unlikely this is, how unexpected. How a snowstorm and a desperate need for wreaths and a meddlesome mother turned into something neither of us saw coming.
Later, we sit by the fire, legs tangled, mugs warm in our hands. Outside, snow drifts down in slow, steady flakes, adding another layer to the mountain's white blanket.
"I never thought a detour would change my life," I say softly.
Rowan's arm tightens around me. "I’m so grateful it did.”
I smile, resting my head against his shoulder. Tomorrow, we'll celebrate Christmas with his mother. Next week, we'll plan for the new year. New designs, new rhythms, a future we're building together one careful choice at a time.
But tonight is just ours.
Snow. Firelight. A possessive mountain man who knows exactly what he wants.
And me—wrapped up in it all, right where I belong.
"Merry Christmas, Rowan," I whisper.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Merry Christmas, Merry."
And as the fire crackles and the snow falls and the mountain keeps its vigil around us, I know with absolute certainty that this is only the first of many merry Christmases to come.