And when we reach the front steps of her building, I pause, look up at the stars, and say a silent thank you—to the muse, to the pain, to the weird luck that brought me here.
Because the best stories aren’t the ones you write.
They’re the ones you get to live.
20
CHAPTER TWENTY – THE BILLIONAIRE AND HIS SEXY SECRETARY
KAT
It’s a year later, and the woods around the cabin still have their secrets, but none of them belong to me anymore. The air is clean and wet with the memory of rain, and every step up the gravel drive brings a new jolt of fresh wood scent. They say you can’t go home again, but nobody tells you what it’s like when home is still there, waiting, but it’s been rebuilt while you weren’t looking.
Talon’s waiting at the end of the drive, hair damp from exertion, a smile like he’s about to throw me over his shoulder and drag me inside. It’s the same cabin, but not really—the roofline’s been re-done, the porch doesn’t sag, and the window glass is so clear it reflects the sky back at you like a dare. I make it three steps before he scoops me up, spins me once, and sets me down with a hard, noisy kiss.
“Welcome home, Kitten,” he says, and the old, sweet ache surges up my spine. God, I love this man.
I giggle and kiss him back. “You have sawdust on your neck,” I tell him, even as I’m busy licking it off. He laughs, and I can feelthe new muscle under his shirt, the result of six months’ worth of DIY renovation and a slow, private war against time. There’s an energy here—an “us” energy, not just his.
“I’ve missed you,” he growls against my neck. “God, I missed you.”
I giggle again.
“It’s only been a few days, Talon,” I coo. “You were just in the city. But I’m here now.”
We step inside, and the place is transformed. The entryway’s been sanded and sealed, the kitchen gleams with copper pots and an honest-to-god espresso machine, but it’s the office that stops me cold. Two desks, side by side: one his battered old oak, and the other a sleek, curvy thing with a glass top and a typewriter with blue finish that matches my laptop. There’s a mug of new pens in the middle, and an empty shelf for “Works in Progress.” The touch is so obviously Talon’s I want to cry.
“I gave you a desk right next to mine,” he says, sheepish, and my heart does an Olympic vault.
“For writing?” I ask, pretending to be unimpressed even as I’m already rearranging the pens in my head.
He shrugs, but there’s a grin in his eyes. “For anything. But mostly, yeah. For writing. I figure you’ll have your own book on the shelf by Christmas.”
I spin in my desk chair, loving how it hugs my hips. “I might have to lock the door to get any work done with you around.”
He leans against the doorway, folding those heavy arms. “That’s not a threat,” he says, “That’s a challenge.”
I open my mouth to reply, but the crunch of tires out front derails me because we’ve invited guests over to celebrate the renovation. The first car is Simone’s—pink hatchback with a cracked headlight and a sticker that says “GASLIGHT, GATEKEEP, GIRLBOSS.” She’s already out of the car before it stops rolling, arms loaded with a grocery bag and a wrapped bottle of Prosecco.
The next car is even more absurd: a battered station wagon piloted by Professor Malcolm Avery, his long-suffering wife in the passenger seat. He’s brought a bottle of wine, two coffee table books, and a yard gnome for the porch “to keep the muses at ease.” Behind them, Renee from BookEnds is pulling up in her rusty Mazda, waving a six-pack of some local microbrew and a stack of paperbacks for us to sign “for the local book club.”
Talon and I meet them at the door, and for a second I just stand there, holding hands with a man who once made my life hell and now makes it so much better. Simone gives a shriek, sets her groceries on the porch, and launches herself into my arms.
“Look at you!” my pretty friend crows, holding me at arm’s length and giving me a once-over. “You’re, like, dewy. Are you pregnant? Or just in post-traumatic bliss?”
“Zero percent pregnant,” I assure her, but Talon leans down to whisper in my ear.
“We could change that if you want.”
I elbow him, but it just makes him smile wider.
Professor Avery is more restrained, but his handshake is warm and sincere. He looks around the cabin, takes in the desks, the new art on the walls, and the mug of pens, and gives me a look that says, “This is right.”
“I brought something for you,” he adds, and hands me a thin, red envelope. Inside is a card with “Summa Cum Laude” printed in gold, and a note: “Couldn’t be prouder—MA.” I flush all over.
“You graduated with honors?” Talon asks, voice a mix of pride and genuine shock. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to jinx it,” I murmur, blushing, as Simone hoots.
