“Seems like a great deal to me,” he says, smiling.
“Just don’t turn to a life of crime, please?” I add with a wince. “I don’t want to have to choose between love and a headline.”
He bursts out laughing, head tipping back, and I suddenly feel like I’m floating. No sound can compare to this man’s laugh. Free, unrestrained, the kind that fills a room and pushes the shadows out to make room for the light.
“Promise,” he says, pulling me back in, his hands sliding to my waist. “No secret identities. No offshore accounts. No underground crime rings.”
“Good,” I murmur against his chest. “Because starting today, I’m retired. At least when it comes to you.”
A slow, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I do hope I get a chance to be your sidekick again, though. It was fun.”
“Oh, you enjoyed it, did you?” I narrow my eyes.
“Absolutely. Well… until it put the life of the woman I love in jeopardy. But investigating other people?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I’m game.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh, the sound spilling out of me, leaving me lighter than I’ve felt in weeks.
“And if I ever want to enlist the help of your detective brain when it comes to my past,” he continues, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, “I’ll file a formal request.”
I nod solemnly. “In triplicate.”
“Obviously.”
His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mingling, warm and steady. No tension in the air between us. No fear humming under the surface. Just the quiet certainty of choosing each other.
For the first time in so long, I don’t feel the urge to chase something.
Not a lead. Not a story. Not even the truth.
Just us.
Epilogue
Baptiste
Eighteen months after Harper and I reunited, I still get this spark in my chest every time I search for her in the stands.
The arena is so loud tonight, you’d think this was the playoffs and not “just” a regular-season game—and only the warmups, no less. Sold-out crowd, stands rippling with red jerseys, a sea of noise and movement pressing in from all sides. The boards rattle with every slam of the puck, the bass of whatever jams they’re playing vibrating through my skates and buzzing up my legs. I shoot a puck to Wally’s cage and force myself to focus, but my eyes keep flicking up anyway, instinctive.
There she is.
First row, Number two slapped on her back. Her hair is down in soft waves, legs crossed. When she catches me looking, her face breaks into a smile.
My chest tightens in the best way.
“Earth to Froggy,” Miles barks as he skates past me. “You planning on blocking shots tonight or just making heart eyes?”
“I am fully capable of multitasking,” I fire back. “And I’m not French anymore. How many times do I have to tell you guys that?”
I decided to forgo my French citizenship a few months ago. I didn’t feel represented by that nationality anymore. I haven’t for a long time. Maybe it was always supposed to be that way. My mother is American after all. And while I may have been born in France, the US gave me everything—a home, a career, the woman I love, and a group of very,veryannoying friends.
“You’ll always be Froggy.” Adler shrugs. “Soooo. Big night, huh?”
“Thenight,” Beaumont adds, shredding to a stop next to me.
I should have never let them in on the secret. But I needed them to act casual when Harper and I don’t come to Deacon’s bar tonight after the game.
Tonight is Valentine’s Day. The night I’m proposing to the love of my life.
