Now he’s lost for a path
Because none of his math
Will express all his feelings toward you.
She gave a huge sniff. “Scored me? Classy, Seb.”
“I did my best.” With an impatient hand, he knuckled aside the wetness under his own eyes. “I’ll always do my best for you. I know I fucked up last week, but I promise nothing like that will ever happen again. Although it may take me some time to learn how to?—”
“Open up?” At his nod, she pushed aside the limerick with a decisive gesture. “So, if I understand you correctly, your plan is for me to quit my job before I begin, build a massage yurt in your backyard, and start an entirely new business.”
“And live with me.” He brushed away her tears with his thumbs. “That’s the most important bit.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Is that what you want?”
It was a deliberate echo, he knew. Of every time he’d asked her that question instead of telling her what he was thinking. Of every time he’d required her to climb out onto an emotional limb and sway in the wind while he clung to the tree trunk.
This time, he was taking the risk too. Because at long last, he finally believed.
“Yes.” No hesitation. No doubt. “That’s what I want.”
That unreadable expression, so unfamiliar on her face, transformed into the most beatific smile he’d ever witnessed. And he’d seen thousands of her smiles. Maybe millions. All of them beautiful, all of them joyful. But none filled with such incandescent pride and elation and love.
Because she did love him. He believed that too.
She flung herself into his arms, knocking them both against the island. He found her mouth, those trembling lips he loved, and pressed a kiss there. Another. Another.
It felt right, like nothing else in his life ever had.
“I love you,” she told him between kisses.
He smiled against her mouth. “I know.”
EPILOGUE
Cowan openedthe new message in his inbox, noting three photo attachments. “I think Lucy Finch got back to us with pictures from her engagement party.”
“Finally.” Irene swiveled away from her monitor and focused on his. “Hippies have no sense of urgency.”
Over the past few weeks, he’d grown rather fond of Ms. Finch and Mr. Castillo. Their episode was likely to become a viewer favorite, as well as HATV’s only episode of Tiny House Trackers that could be considered erotically charged, due to footage the couple hadn’t noticed the cameras capturing.
“The party only happened three days ago,” Cowan said. “Cut her some slack.”
Irene couldn’t abide delays or obstacles thwarting her progress, which made her a fearsome HATV intern but an exhausting coworker. And although he would never admit it to her, also a very stimulating—but frustrating—companion.
“The episode airs next week, and we’ll need to add those photos to the follow-up segment at the end.” The crease of her brow, barely visible under her heavy black fringe ofbangs, indicated her concentration as she tapped out a message to the Tiny House Trackers staff. “I hope there’s time.”
“Should be. Don’t worry.” After reading the lovely, seemingly sincere letter of thanks Ms. Finch had written to accompany the pictures, he clicked through the images. “Oh, wow.”
Irene’s gaze focused again on his monitor. “Wow indeed. It pains me to say this, but the tie-dyed dress looks good on her. Someone needs to talk to her about frizz control products, though.”
He shook his head. “Not that. Look at Mr. Castillo’s expression.”
Clad in a crisp white shirt, subtly patterned tie, and dark suit, the man was standing among a group of conservatively clad people with dark hair and golden-brown skin, along with a number of pasty-white folks sporting ponytails and Jimi Hendrix tees and throwing peace signs.
Cowan figured he could work out which family was whose.
Mr. Castillo had wrapped his arms around Ms. Finch from behind, his chin propped on her shoulder. He was beaming, his lean face creased in joy.
