So much had changed. I had, too. Maybe to some people, I’d always be Lola from the City. But I wasn’t the newcomer anymore. And I’d never be an outsider again.
I could love. And I was loved in return.
My version of happily ever after.
Epilogue
Aiden
Three Years Later
“Time to go, sleepyhead.”
The summer sky hid behind my closed eyes, but the warmth of Lola’s voice swelled in my chest. I loved waking up to my wife’s voice. Loved it. She sounded sweeter than honey drizzled on crumpets. Better than the pancakes she’d cooked me for breakfast. I never got tired of hearing her voice.
That didn’t mean I was opening my eyes, though.
I kept ’em shut real tight. Kept pretending I was enjoying a peaceful doze on the porch. My back ached from sitting crooked on the outdoor lounge, but my legs were stretched out, anda book lay open on my chest.The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Bruce and Barb had given it to me when they’d stopped by on their latest tour around Tasmania.
“Aiden.” There was a frustrated huff in Lola’s voice. Loved that, too. Loved her bossy. “I know you’re awake.”
I cracked one eye open.
Lola’s body blocked out the sun streaming over the mountains. It didn’t matter that she glared down at me, hands on her hips. She still looked like pure heaven in her new dress. I reached out to flick the hem, but she playfully smacked my hand.
I looked up at her with my saddest puppy-dog eyes. “Do we have to go?” I grumbled.
“Yes.”
“And I have to wear…this?”
I pointed to the outfit. Colonel Cotton Paws was curled up and purring on my lap. Hopefully, his ginger fuzz had ruined the ugly pants Lola had made me wear.
Why did the women in my life insist on dressing me? And why did they always choose scratchy, wool outfits like accountants wore? I liked jeans. They looked good. Went with everything. Apparently, sometimes you had to wearsomethingnice.
Fine. For Lola, I’d suffer, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. I was stripping those pants off and shoving them into some dark corner in the back of the wardrobe the second we got home.
When she gave me a sassy cough to get moving, I raised a brow and asked, “Are you sure thisvisitto the farm isn’t a surprise party you’re all springing on me?”
“A party? No, of course not.” Lola’s teeth gnawed on her bottom lip. “You hate parties.”
Yeah, she was dragging me to a surprise party.
My lip curled. “Is there going to be singing?”
“Singing?” Lola’s nose wrinkled, and she bit down harder on her lip, but a smile still broke through. “Why would there be singing?”
Great. Justgreat.
A surprise party with damn singing, too.
It was my birthday. Why couldn’t I choose what we did? What was wrong with spending a day at home on the couch watching TV with my beautiful wife?
I tried my luck one more time. “Is the grumpy birthday troll at least getting a cake out of this?”
Lola hid her eyes behind her hand.
“Did you bake my cake, love?”
