Then I grab my fiancé by the collar and kiss him again, in front of God, my mother, and the entire town.
And he kisses me back.
EPILOGUE
FINN
One month later
I've walked into the card room at The Retreat hundreds of times. Through the marble lobby with its gleaming, dark millwork. Past Bernie at the door. Under the lobby's crystal chandelier that's older than the club's liquor license. A hundred times, and never once with my whole life on my arm.
Darcy's hand rests in the crook of my elbow. She's wearing a new dress and a calm I know better than to trust at a pub trivia night or a high-stakes card table, and when Bernie tips his head to her like she's been coming here for years, she thanks him by name as if she's known him as long as I have. I told her everything about this club on the drive in from my place in the city. She literally took notes.
The card room door is open. Amber light, old scotch, and five of the richest men in Manhattan around the mahogany table. Wyatt is in mid-shuffle, holding court about something that's making Alec shake his head.
Darcy and I walk in.
The shuffle stops mid-riffle.
Damien's glass stops halfway to his mouth. Alec turns his head and freezes. Brad frowns and sets down his scotch, which for cool and collected Bradford Hayes is a scream. Gabe doesn't move at all, other than to quirk an eyebrow up, which is Gabe at his loudest. Half the deck slips out of Wyatt's normally sure hands and fans across the felt.
He recovers first. Wyatt always recovers first.
"Gentlemen." He rises, buttons his jacket, the wolf smile arriving at full wattage. "Remain calm. Bardot appears to have made a friend."
"Everyone," I say, and there's no showman in it, because this part I've been looking forward to for a month and I want it plain. "I'd like you to meet Darcy Gable. My fiancée."
Dead silence.
I had a whole bit prepared for this moment. I've been polishing it since Mattichogue. Standing here watching their faces, I let the bit go.
"Fiancée," Wyatt repeats, like the word is in a language he studied once and dropped.
"Fiancée," I confirm.
Wyatt sits back in his chair like a man absorbing news of a market crash, and I reach into my jacket, because there's no better moment than this one, and there's never going to be. The check has been in my pocket for a month. I unfold it and lay it in the middle of the mahogany like a losing hand.
One million dollars, made out to the fund.
"Gentlemen," I say. "I'm out."
The noise that follows is not dignified. Damien is laughing into his glass. Alec is on his feet. Brad says something that would require three apologies to Darcy. And through all of it, Wyatt stares at the check the way other men stare at car accidents, and then the recalculation crosses his face in real time—shock to arithmetic to something approaching religious joy.
"Three million," he breathes. "The pot is three million dollars, and the bookmaker justpaid in." He stands, raises his glass, and addresses the room like it's a shareholders meeting. "This calls for a toast. To me. The last real holdout at this table, the future sole owner of the largest kitty in the history of gentlemen's stupidity, and the only man here with the constitution to finish what Bardot started. To the winner, gentlemen. You're looking at him."
Damien and Alec exchange a look over their glasses. Neither of them says a word. They don't have to. I've seen that look from the other side of it now, and it says the same thing it said when I was the one toasting: God, I hope we're all there when it happens.
I salute Wyatt anyway, cheerfully. He can have the pot. I know something he doesn't know yet about how good losing is.
I drop a kiss to Darcy's temple, then bring her forward for introductions before the table can reboot, and this is where I get to watch the thing I've been waiting a month to watch.
"Damien," she says warmly, taking his hand. "So nice to meet you." And then, gently, like it's the most natural thing in the world, she reaches up and brushes a stray dog hair off the shoulder of his four-thousand-dollar jacket.
Evidence of Willow's pet menagerie dispatched, Damien looks down at his shoulder, then at Darcy, and the most feared negotiator in Manhattan visibly surrenders on the spot. "A pleasure, Darcy."
Her smile smoothly moves away from Damien. "Hello, Alec. How are you liking Sedona? I've always wanted to see the red rocks."
"They're..." Alec pauses, and I watch the man physically decide to say it in front of us. "Honestly? There's something about them. Calming. Ella says the whole valley has an energy all its own. I used to give her hell about it, and now I'm theone dragging guests up to the overlook at sunrise." He shrugs, caught, missing his fiancée so obviously it's coming off him like heat. "It got me. What can I say?"
