Epilogue
Daddy stood in my finished living room with three prospective buyers gathered around him.
“Shaylene inherited my eye for property,” he said.
I nearly dropped the tray of mini pecan tarts.
“You told me this place needed a match,” I said as I passed him.
Daddy didn’t lose momentum. “I was testing her conviction.”
One of the buyers laughed. Daddy accepted that as confirmation he’d been charming instead of rewriting history in front of witnesses.
Christmas greenery curved over the restored fireplace mantel, threaded with golden-white lights and small gold ornaments.
Cooler December sunlight poured through the tall front windows, catching the rich grain of the refinished hardwood floors.
The original built-in, painted a soft cream, stood against the wall, its cleaned brass hardware gleaming as if it had spent ninety-nine years waiting for someone to pay attention.
I’d paid attention.
So had the thirty-seven people currently moving through the bungalow with cups of hot cider, coffee, and iced tea.
The sale was scheduled to close after Christmas, and my second project already waited three streets over with a sound roof, terrible wallpaper, and numbers good enough to survive my spreadsheets.
Six months ago, I’d needed this place to prove I could build a business.
Now the business had clients, contractors who returned my calls, and a checking account that didn’t belong to anyone named Luttrell except me.
Titus caught my eye from the kitchen.
He wore dark jeans, boots, a clean charcoal shirt, and the white hat he’d removed indoors and left on the quartz counter. His winter jacket hung over one of the stools. When I smiled, his clear blue eyes softened in the way that still made me forget what I was carrying.
He crossed the room and took the tray before I could tilt it again.
“Your father inventing history?” he asked.
“He’s improving it.”
“Generous.”
“I inherited that from him too.”
Titus carried the tarts toward the kitchen. His free hand brushed the small of my back as he passed, a familiar touch through my green wool dress.
The three buyers weren’t competing for the bungalow. It had gone under contract four days after the listing appeared. They’d come because each wanted to know what I planned to renovate next.
That answer remained the neglected two-bedroom with the terrible wallpaper.
Garrett waited beside the kitchen opening with a cup of coffee in one hand and my final project summary in the other. His tailored coat hung open over a blue button-down shirt, and his dark hair remained neat despite the wind outside.
“You closed within two percent of your original renovation budget,” he said.
“One point six.”
“I rounded.”
“You shouldn’t do that while complimenting my numbers.”
His amber-brown gaze warmed. “The projected profit held too.”
“It improved.”
“I saw that.”
I took the papers from him. “Are you examining my open-house guests for signs of financial instability?”
“I’m making conversation.”
“You’ve asked two people whether they’re preapproved.”
“They brought up financing.”
“They were discussing the coffee.”
Garrett smiled. “You did excellent work, Shay.”
“Thank you.”
“I should’ve asked what you were planning instead of assuming you were satisfied at the mayor’s office.”
“You should’ve.”
He accepted the answer without defending himself. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
Bobby appeared beside him carrying three empty cider cups stacked in one hand. His chestnut hair had already surrendered to the December wind, and the green blazer he’d worn over his jeans looked suspiciously festive.
“I made a different mistake,” he said.
“You made several. Narrow it down.”
“I thought you were doing an impressive hobby.” He set the cups on the counter. “I was wrong.”
Garrett glanced at him. “That was almost graceful.”
“I practiced in the truck.”
“You sent me six unsolicited opinions about the listing photographs,” I said.
“Those were professional observations.”
“You suggested adding a drone shot of Daddy looking disapprovingly at the roof.”
“That would’ve increased engagement.”
I laughed and hugged him.
Bobby squeezed me tightly before stepping back. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me too.”
“You should be.”
Across the room, Brandi made a noise loud enough to interrupt three separate conversations.
She stood beneath the greenery over the fireplace in a fitted red dress with a cropped emerald cardigan and tiny silver Christmas-tree earrings that blinked when she moved. Her strawberry-blond bob curved against her cheeks as she waved both hands at the restored mantel.
“You kept the limestone!”
“I told you I was keeping it.”
“I know, but now it’s clean and beautiful.” She hurried toward me, caught both my hands, and looked around again. “You did this.”
“I had qualified help.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
She hugged me hard enough to make my bracelets press into my wrist.
When she released me, Bobby leaned against the counter. “How’s your romantic life, Brandi?”
She turned her bright smile on him. “Private.”
“That sounded ominous.”
“It sounded complete.” She took a mini pecan tart from Titus’s tray. “Today is about Shay, her profitable house, and the cowboy she accidentally ordered by text.”
Titus looked at her. “She didn’t order me.”
“I’ve read the list.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell him that,” I said.
“He knew I’d read it.”
“I suspected,” Titus said.
Brandi bit into the tart. “See? Healthy communication.”
Daddy’s voice rose from the living room.
“My daughter restored every important feature herself.”
Titus glanced toward him. “Apparently, I was never here.”
“You held casing,” I said. “History may forgive you.”
“I also held the built-in.”
“Daddy isn’t ready for that information.”
T.R. Calhoun stood near the front windows in a worn dark coat, faded jeans, and scuffed boots, his hat tucked beneath one arm. His iron-gray hair framed a weathered face and close gray beard.
Now he listened while Daddy explained the bungalow’s transformation to an older couple.
“Shaylene understood from the beginning that the property had potential,” Daddy said.
T.R. rubbed one thumb along his beard. “That so?”
Daddy looked at him. “It is.”
“I recall you calling it a fire hazard.”
“I was discussing its condition before my daughter improved it.”
“With nobody’s help, naturally.”
“Shaylene directed the project.”
T.R. nodded toward Titus. “That’s what my son says every time somebody tries to give him credit.”
Daddy’s mouth tightened. “For once, Titus is correct.”
Titus leaned closer to me. “Mark the date.”
“I have witnesses.”
T.R. looked directly at Daddy. “You still planning to claim that eye for property?”
“I recognized her talent before you did.”
“You recognized it after you pulled into the drive and tried to take over.”
The older couple became intensely interested in the original window casing.
Daddy lowered his voice. “We agreed to behave today.”
“I am behaving.”
“This is you behaving?”
T.R.’s pale-blue eyes remained calm. “You’d notice the difference.”
I stepped between them before the Broken Handshake received a Christmas sequel.
“Daddy, the couple in the kitchen wanted to ask you about the mayor’s holiday-lighting contest.”
He straightened. “I’m not judging this year.”
“They don’t know that.”
He gave T.R. one final look. “Excuse me.”
T.R. watched him walk away. “He’s getting easier.”
“That was easier?” I asked.
“He didn’t threaten any permits.”
Titus handed his father a cup of coffee. “Strong performance from both of you.”
T.R. accepted it. “Your mother said I had to make an effort.”
The afternoon moved through the bungalow in bursts of laughter, hot drinks, and questions about floors, costs, and the second project.
Whenever someone turned to me, Titus let me answer, even when he knew the answer.
He refilled the cider, carried empty trays into the kitchen, and kissed my temple whenever our paths crossed.
Six months hadn’t made him less grumpy.
It had made me fluent.
I knew that his silence while I discussed the next property meant he was listening.
I knew the small lift at one corner of his mouth meant he found something funny but didn’t intend to encourage anyone.
I knew that when he settled a palm at my waist and drew me briefly against his side, he wanted me close without needing to interrupt.
I wanted the same thing every time.
I still received mail at the guesthouse.
Most of my furniture remained there, along with enough clothes to support the argument that it was my official residence.
I also kept an overnight bag at the ranch, two pairs of boots beside Titus’s back door, and a growing collection of toiletries in his bathroom.
I’d kept the guesthouse as my official home while I finished the bungalow and got my business running.
At five, winter light faded from the tall windows. The prospective buyers left first, followed by neighbors and contractors. Garrett carried the empty coffee urn to my SUV. Bobby packed the remaining desserts into containers while stealing enough pecan tarts to compromise the count.
Brandi hugged me again at the door.
“You’re magnificent,” she said.
“You’re taking half the desserts.”
“Both statements are true.”
She kissed my cheek and stepped onto the porch.
Daddy paused beside the front door with his coat buttoned and one gloved hand resting on the knob. His brown eyes traveled through the finished living room, then returned to me.
“You did good work, sugar.”
“Thank you.”
“I still think the next property needs a proper structural review before you close.”
“I’ve scheduled one.”
“And Garrett can look at the financing.”
“I have a lender.”
His mouth twitched. “You always have an answer.”
“I inherited that from you.”
He kissed my forehead. “Sunday dinner. Seven.”
“I’ll check my calendar.”
“You’re coming.”
“I probably am.”
“That means yes.”
“It means you’re improving.”
Daddy left before I could see whether he smiled.
T.R. followed, carrying his hat beneath one arm.
“You two coming to the ranch tomorrow?” he asked.
Titus looked at me.
“We’ll be there after lunch,” I said.
T.R. nodded. “Your mother will be glad.”
He stepped outside and walked toward the gravel drive.
Titus waited until his father’s taillights disappeared, then stepped outside and crossed to his truck. He returned less than a minute later and shut the door behind him.
I turned the dead bolt and faced the living room.
Without thirty-seven guests, the bungalow fell quiet. Small lights glowed through the greenery. The original floors reflected the lamps near the walls, and the finished built-in held a few staged books, framed prints, and pottery that would leave before the closing.
Titus gathered abandoned cups from the mantel while I carried the last tray into the kitchen.
“You can tell me why you just went to your truck.”
“I could.”
“Then why did you?”
Titus set two cups beside the sink. “Leave those.”
“That sounded suspiciously like an order.”
“It was a request with poor manners.”
“Try again,” I said.
He came around the quartz counter and held out one hand.
“Come here, please.”
I placed my palm in his.
Titus drew me between the counter and his body. The kitchen where he’d first listened to every word I said now glowed with Christmas lights from the adjoining living room. His eyes moved over my face, steady and more serious than they’d been all afternoon.
“What?” I asked.
“I love you.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “I love you too.”
“I know.”
“You usually answer with something more romantic.”
“I’m working up to it.”
His hand tightened around mine.
Then Titus reached into his jeans pocket.
My breath stopped.
He removed a small ring box.
“Oh.”
“That’s why I went to the truck.”
“You kept a ring in your truck?”
“In the locked console until the last guest left.”
“That’s alarmingly practical.”
“It seemed better than letting your brother find it while he searched for dessert containers.”
“Bobby would’ve proposed to me by accident.”
“I considered that.”
Titus opened the box.
The ring caught the kitchen light. For one long moment, I could only stare at it.
Then Titus lowered to one knee.
He looked up at me from the middle of the kitchen where I’d once been afraid to let anyone see what I wanted.
“Shay, will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so quickly it landed over the end of his question.
He smiled.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Yes, Titus. I’ll marry you.”
He stood and slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
I caught his face between both hands and kissed him. Titus wrapped his arms around me and lifted me from the floor, turning once before setting me against the quartz counter.
I laughed against his mouth.
“You planned this,” I said.
“I occasionally have a good idea.”
“You’ve been waiting six months to use that.”
“Longer.”
I looked at the ring again, then at him. “How long have you had it?”
“Three weeks.”
“And nobody knew?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Daddy didn’t know?”
“He didn’t.”
“Thank you.”
“That seemed important.”
“It was.”
Titus kissed the corner of my mouth. “I want you at the ranch.”
“I’m already at the ranch most nights.”
“I want all of you there. Your mail, your clothes, the furniture you actually care about.” His thumb moved over the ring. “I’m not making that part of the proposal. You can keep the guesthouse as long as you want.”
“I know.”
“I’m asking what you want.”
I rested my palm against his chest. “I want to move in.”
His gaze held mine.
“Officially?” he asked.
“Officially. I’ll change my address and bring the rest of my things after Christmas.”
“The guesthouse furniture too?”
“Some of it.”
“How much?”
“I’ll make a list.”
Titus’s mouth curved. “Send it carefully.”
I laughed and pulled him down for another kiss.
The ring flashed against the pale quartz when I touched his cheek. Tomorrow, I’d start packing.
Tonight, I was going home with my fiancé.
***
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