"Almost like someone scripted it," she agrees with a smile.
As the fireworks continue to explode overhead, painting the night in bursts of color and light, I pull Nora close again. Leaves swirl around our feet, dislodged by the autumn breeze, golden and perfect in their journey.
"So what do you say, Nora Bell?" I ask, my lips close to her ear. "Want to give us a try? The quarterback and the novelist? Chapter one of something bigger?"
She winds her arms around my neck, her eyes reflecting the fireworks above. "I think," she says softly, "that every good story deserves a sequel."
And then she kisses me, there beneath the oak trees and festival lights, with fireworks blazing overhead and the whole town as our witness. It feels like victory, like coming home, like the beginning of everything I never knew I wanted.
Epilogue – Nora
Three Years Later
The trouble with happy endings is that they're never really endings at all.
Three years after I chased my cat across Willowbrook Lane and into Devin Turner's life, I'm sitting on our porch swing, watching twilight settle over Whitetail Falls.
From the yard, I hear Devin's laughter mingling with children's voices as he helps set up the kids' football toss for tomorrow. The sunset light catches in his hair, now threaded with the faintest silver at his temples that I find ridiculously attractive.
"Higher, Coach Devin! Higher!" The children squeal as he adjusts the target, his smile wide and genuine.
This is his element now, not stadiums or television commentary, though ESPN still calls occasionally. Instead, he runs the Whitetail Falls Youth Football League, a program that's grown from twelve hesitant kids to over sixty enthusiastic players. Turns out, Devin Turner's greatest talent isn't throwing perfect spirals but making children believe they're capable of more than they imagined.
Pudding, now older and considerably plumper, snoozes in the wicker chair beside me. His orange fur has faded to a softer ginger, but his judgmental expression remains perfectly intact, especially when it's directed at—
"Mama! Look!"
A tiny figure toddles up the porch steps, her pumpkin costume slightly askew, dark curls escaping from beneath the green stem hat. At twenty months old, Stella Eleanor Turner is aforce of nature—headstrong, curious, and perpetually in motion. Currently, her chubby hands clutch a caramel apple, most of which seems to have made its way onto her face.
"I see you, pumpkin," I laugh, setting aside my coffee mug to help her navigate the steps. "Did Daddy get you a treat?"
"Daddy said yes," she announces solemnly, as though this explains everything.
"Did he now?" I raise my voice just enough for Devin to hear. "And did Daddy remember we're having dinner in an hour?"
Devin glances over, expression comically guilty. "It's the Fall Festival! Festival rules are different."
He dismisses the children with high-fives and jogs over to join us, vaulting easily over the porch railing instead of using the steps.
"In my defense," he says, dropping a kiss on top of my head before collapsing beside me on the swing, "she gave me the eyes. You know the ones."
"I'm familiar," I concede, watching as Stella abandons her half-eaten apple to investigate a particularly crunchy-looking leaf.
Devin's arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me closer. "How's the book launch going? Any new reviews?"
My latest novel,Winning the Quarterback, hit shelves earlier this week. My editor calls it my "breakout book," the one that might finally push Eleanor Nightingale beyond my modest readership.
"Another starred review in Publishers Weekly," I admit, still not quite believing it. "And apparently we're trending on BookTok."
"Of course you are." His pride is palpable, warming me more than my quilt. "Though I still think you should have let me read it before publication. I could have fact-checked the football scenes."
I elbow him gently. "It's fiction, Turner. And you know my rule about you reading my work before it's published."
"It makes you nervous, I know." He kisses my temple. "But you do realize the entire town thinks it's just our love story with the names changed."
"Pure coincidence," I insist, though we both know better.
"Daddy! Up!" Stella demands, abandoning her leaf collection to toddle back to us, arms raised imperiously.
