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But tonight, it’s just me and my favorite friend.
“Did you get everything you wanted?” I ask her as Christmas Day draws to a close and we head down the hall to bed.
“I already had everything I wanted, but yes, your gifts were perfect, as always.” She presses up on tiptoe to kiss my cheek before adding in a naughty voice, “Although there is one thing I didn’t find under the tree . . .”
I arch a brow, feigning ignorance, though the hand she runs over my ass leaves little doubt what my vixen has in mind. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“You,” she murmurs, lifting her chin. “Naked and at my mercy.”
I kiss her, smiling against her lips. “That can be arranged, Butterfly. Right this very second, in fact.”
And it is.
And I am—at her mercy.
When it comes to CJ, my heart is wide open, defenseless, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
ANOTHER EPILOGUE
CJ
Eleven months later…
I tug on a pretty pink sweater, fasten on one of my typewriter necklaces, then give my hair one final fluff.
Appraising my reflection in the mirror, I decide I look pretty damn good for a woman heading to Sunday morning brunch with her roommate.
Laughing at that word—as if it can even begin to encompass the depth of what we share in this home—I head to the living room, stopping to give Stephen King a scratch on the chin.
A quick purr tells me he likes the attention.
“Of course you like attention. You’re a man,” I say, then rub his ears. Good thing I enjoy spoiling the men in my life.
I grab my purse and sling it onto my shoulder. I’m scanning the room for my phone when it rings loudly from the coffee table. It’s Ted, the weekend doorman.
“There’s a delivery for you.”
“Send it up.”
A few minutes later, I answer the door and thank Ted as I take a slim white box from him. When the door shuts, I tug off the ribbon.
I furrow my brow as I find a number two pencil in it.
What on earth?
There’s a note. Bring the pencil to brunch, my butterfly.
I shrug happily. That’s Graham. He is the king of gifts, and I have to say, I love this special skill of his. Stephen King’s new leather studded collar is proof that Graham can shop his butt off for anyone, or any creature.
Tucking the pencil into my purse, I catch the train to Brooklyn and Sweetie Pies, a fantastic pie shop where Graham said he’d meet me after his workout. We’ve become regulars at Sweetie Pies. So much so that I’m on a first name basis with the owners, Barb and Pete.
But this morning it’s Ruby, their daughter, who shows me to my table with a spring in her step.
Which is amazing to see, considering I know she’s been in physical therapy for nearly a year after a bad car accident.
“You’re looking good today,” I say, sliding into the booth near the window.
“Thanks,” she says, her dark eyes shining. “I’m feeling good. Hard not to on a week like this.”
I arch a brow. “Oh yeah? What’s on your agenda?”
“My last PT appointment,” she says. “Then dinner with the family to celebrate, vacation days, and I may have just splurged on an obscene number of new art supplies.”
“Nice!” I tap a finger to my menu, where adorable pies, drawn by Ruby, dance with forks and a cheeky-looking cup of coffee. “I meant what I said, by the way. I’d love to see more of your sketches some time.”
“We’ll make a date,” she says, casting a cagey look toward the door. “Next time you’re in. Right now I have to run to take care of a few things. Nick will be taking care of you, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, wondering what else Ruby has up her sleeve. She looks like she has a secret, and I’m hoping it’s a love-flavored one. She’s just so sweet and been through so much after the accident. She deserves an epic romance.
Of course, these days I tend to believe everyone deserves epic romance. That’s what a year of blissful togetherness with an amazing man will do to a girl.
I’m about to text Graham something cheesy about missing him even though we’ve only been apart a couple of hours, when a voice speaks from over my shoulder.
“Miss Murphy?”
I look up at the young face of a waiter. Must be Nick. “Yes. Good morning.”
“I have something for you.” He hands me another white box, tied with a silver ribbon this time. It’s bigger than the one sent to the house, about the size to hold a shirt or sweater.
Gently, I tug at the bow, letting it fall open. I reach inside to find . . .
A black composition notebook?
My brow pinches as I pick it up and read the front.
A new lesson plan.
