The book slips from my fingers and I run.
I don’t think. I just run straight to him, throwing myself into his arms.
He catches me with a low grunt, his arms locking tight around my waist, lifting me off the ground like he’s afraid to ever let go. He buries his face in my neck, and the second I breathe him in—cedar, fresh mountain rain,home—I break.
I kiss him, unable to wait another second without his lips on mine. It’s desperate, messy, and starving, weeks of ache pouring out of me all at once. He smiles against my mouth, tasting like salt and sun and everything I’ve been missing.
All of the bad stuff melts away until all that remains is me and him and the indisputable truth that my heart was made to beat for him.
“I missed you,” I whisper against his lips, breathless.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing his nose against mine. “I missed you more.”
I laugh, then cry, then kiss him again. Over and over. Like I’ll never run out of reasons.
When we finally pull apart, I cup his face in my hands, overwhelmed. “I thought you hated me.”
His jaw flexes as his eyes search mine, serious now. “I could never hate you, Sadie. I’m in love with you. I think I’ve been in love with you since that first day you stomped into the kitchen.”
My throat tightens and a tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. “I love you, too.”
He closes his eyes, exhales, like those four words are oxygen. His forehead presses to mine as he cups my cheeks, pulling my mouth to his.
When he kisses me again, it’s softer. Slower. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home.
The ocean waves crash behind us; gulls cry overhead; the world keeps moving. But all I feel is him.
And for the first time in weeks—maybe ever—I can breathe again.
Because here, in his arms—
I am home.
EPILOGUE
WESLEY
OCTOBER
Thehousestillsmellslike fresh paint and sawdust.
It’s softened now—less sharp than it was when we moved in a week ago—but every time I breathe in, I’m reminded that this is really ours. Something I almost lost before it even started.
A chilly October breeze slips through the cracked kitchen window behind me as I stir the pot on the stove.
It’s a Friday night, but we’re staying in. No Lucky’s. No loud music or crowds. Just us.
The Princess Brideis playing on the TV mounted above the fireplace, the living room washed in the soft glow of the flames. Sadie’s curled up on the couch, burrowed beneath the quilt she stole from the main house—the one she “accidentally forgot” to give back.
Iris is curled at her feet, blissfully asleep. The new leather couch was supposed to be a no-dog zone, but Iris has been too good lately to kick her off. I’ve given up pretending I stand a chance saying no to either of my girls.
Sadie’s laptop sits open on the coffee table, her course textbooks stacked beside it. She still works on the ranch—she insisted—but Dad moved her to part-time for the off-season, claiming “education comes first.” She argued, of course, but he didn’t budge. I’ve never seen someone so grateful and annoyed at the same time.
For a moment, I just watch her—tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear like she always does—and the thought hits me all over again: I almost didn’t get this. Didn’t gether.
I don’t know what I did to deserve a second chance, but I’ll spend the rest of my life paying back every person who helped me get here.
I wipe my hands on the non-decorative dish towel—because according to Sadie, thereisa difference—and head for my phone on the end table so I can put on a playlist while I finish cooking.
