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Cal kept looking down at the woman in his arms — his bratty, fierce, impossibly brave princess — and felt something shift forever inside his chest.
“It sure is, princess.”
Sage turned her gaze from the sky to him, eyes shining with fresh tears as she smiled and hugged him tighter.
“More beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” he whispered softly.
“Oh Cal…” she managed, voice thick with joy.
He smiled as he continued on, the heavens continuing their endless symphony above them. He knew the rest of eternity would be different now.
Brighter.
Fuller.
Theirs.
EPILOGUE
Two Months Later
The kitchen smelled like rosemary, melting butter, Isabelle’s bright citrus perfume, and a slight musky scent that Sage hoped to God neither Isabelle or Mary Sue would place.
I cleaned! I swear I cleaned it…
Outside, a fresh blanket of snow lay soft and pristine under a partly cloudy Montana sky, the air cold and crisp enough to make every breath taste like pine and winter itself. But inside, the big gourmet French-country kitchen glowed with warmth.
Heavy timber beams soared overhead, worn leather stools hugged the massive island, and industrial-grade appliances — stainless steel ranges and a gleaming French-door fridge he’d installed because “If I’m cooking I’m going to cook right” — hummed softly beneath rustic open shelving lined with herbs, cast iron, and expensive blue enamelware that Mary Sue said was, “good enough”.
Late afternoon light poured through the tall, frost-kissed windows, turning everything golden and honey-warm, catching on the granite counters and polished stone floors.
Sage sat at the island in one of Cal’s flannels — the soft green one that still carried his scent — sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem skimming mid-thigh. She watched her sister-in-law-slash-best-friend-slash-self-appointed-wedding-planner detonate three different planning binders, two phones, and one laptop, across the counter like electronic pastel-colored grenades.
“Okay, so the Bozeman caterer can do the June date but not if we want the heirloom tomatoes from that specific farm, which — Sage, babe, are you listening to me? The tomatoes are non-negotiable.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re not. You have the face.” Isabelle pointed a glittery pen at her without looking up. “That dopey little smile, the soft eyes, and that ‘I’ve been fucked twice already today—lucky me’ look. It’s frankly nauseating.”
“It’s not nauseating.”
“It’s a little nauseating.”
Mary Sue’s quiet laugh drifted over from the stove where she was stirring a big pot of beef stew that had been simmering for the better part of an hour. The rich, savory scent of tender beef, red wine, root vegetables, and fragrant herbs wrapped around the kitchen like the warmest hug. She didn’t turn around. She just stirred, slow and steady, while Sage felt that familiar warm-full feeling bloom deep in her chest again — the one that had taken up permanent residence there for the last two months. She still wasn’t used to it. She didn’t think she ever would be.
“Tomatoes,” Sage said, smiling and finally giving her best friend her full attention. “Yes to the tomatoes. Veto the caterer if she can’t make it work.”
“Thank you.” Isabelle slashed something out and scribbled something else in. She paused mid-sentence, nose twitching as she sniffed the air. Her eyes widened.
Oh shit.
“You didn’t,” Isabelle whispered, leaning in so Mary Sue wouldn’t hear.
Sage covered her mouth, face flaming beet red, and tried to mumble, “No! No, I didn’t!”
Isabelle started laughing in pure disbelief — and not a little jealousy. “OMG you so fucking did! You did! I can’t believe you two!”
Sage was giggling now too, the memory flashing hot behind her eyes: Cal bending her over the kitchen table right after his morning workout, her legs shaking, his big hands gripping her hips while she tried, but failed, to stay quiet.
