Page 231 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

His voice dropped. “I wouldn’t mind getting shoved against a locker. If you’re the one doing it.”

I pressed a hand to my chest, scandalized. “We’re in public, sir. You can’t just seduce me like that.”

He glanced at me again, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I can if it’s working.” A pause. “Is it?”

I laughed, the sound filling the car. “You’re such a dork.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

He shrugged, easy and completely unbothered, then lifted my hand from his neck and pressed a kiss to my palm.

“You’re stuck with me either way.”

He was right.

I was stuck with him.

Stuck like two stars in the same orbit. Stuck like roots that had grown together underground, tangled and inseparable. Different notes in the same melody, impossible to hear one without the other.

The thought settled into my chest like a key turning in a lock. Like the way home feels final when you’ve been walking for a long time and finally, finally, you’re there.

I was stuck with Cassian Sterling. And I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Epilogue

Iwas getting married. Again.

Not to Naija, despite Felicity’s jokes. To Cassian. Again.

My hand smoothed down the front of my dress. It was a soft pink, flowing gown that fell in loose layers around me, the fabric bunching into gentle folds and spreading out as it moved. Felicity had spent twenty minutes arranging it, and Naija had spent five minutes telling her to stop fussing.

The music had started. I could hear it through the doors, the opening notes of something old and familiar.

Can’t Help Falling in Love.

Naija and Felicity had already walked ahead. I could see them through the gap in the doors, taking their places. Naija’s expression was calm.

Felicity was already crying.

Mrs. Garcia appeared beside me, her arm sliding through mine. She pressed my bouquet into my hands.

“Nervous?”

I let out a breath. “I’m marrying the same man for the second time.”

“So that’s a yes.” Her eyes crinkled.

I glanced at her. We were working together again. Garcia’s and Velaré’s collaboration had grown beyond anyone’s expectations. Every new restaurant that opened in a new hotel, I was there. Every press release, every launch, every quiet conversation about what came next.

The music swelled.

The doors were about to open.

“A little,” I admitted. The words came out soft. “Just… a little.”

She squeezed my arm. “I’m here. No matter what.”