I turn off the heat on the eggs and step closer, the spatula forgotten as I wipe my hands on a dishtowel. For a guy who’s spent his entire life thinking safety was just another word for boredom, hearing her say it feels like the biggest victory of my life.
“Happy, huh?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend, trying to play it cool even though her words are hitting me like a freight train. “Even with guards stationed outside and all this chaos around us?”
Her smile widens, the shyness melting into something brighter. “Even with all that. Because it’s not just the chaos—it’s you. It’s us.”
Fuck. If she doesn’t stop talking like that, I’m not sure I’ll survive breakfast.
I step closer and brush a strand of hair back from her face. Her skin is warm under my fingers, and I let my hand linger for a second longer than necessary.
“It’s us, but just because I’m convenient, right?” I murmur, half-joking, though there’s no denying the intensity of what I’m feeling. “Still, I love you.”
She laughs softly, the sound wrapping around me like a goddamn lifeline. “You’re not funny, Ledge,” she teases, but her eyes are searching mine, like she’s trying to figure out if I feel it too—this thing between us that’s too big, too real, to ignore.
“I think I’m happy too,” I admit, my voice quieter than I expect. Years ago, I couldn’t get out of this town fast enough, running for my life because I never knew how bad it would get the next time my father stumbled home too drunk. Yet here I am, standing in this kitchen with a woman I adore as my wife, the smell of coffee in the air, and actually thinking about becoming the next coach for the town’s team. “And for a guy who didn’t even believe in happy a few months ago, that’s saying something.”
Her breath catches, and she sets the coffee mug on the counter before stepping into my space, her hands sliding up to rest lightly on my chest. “So, what do we do now?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “I feel like we need to mark this with a celebration.”
I lean in, my forehead resting lightly against hers. “For now we keep going,” I say, because I do feel like we need a celebration. That wedding she wants in Italy where it’s just us exchanging vows and promising everything—this time because of love. It’s something I need to plan, and it’ll happen, but for now . . . “We figure this out. Together. Because whatever this is, Gale—it’s ours.”
She smiles, her hands curling into the fabric of my shirt, and in that moment, with the smell of bacon in the air and her warmth pressed against me, I know without a doubt that I’d burn the whole world down to keep this. To keep her.
“I love you, Mrs. Timberbridge. Forever,” I say, my voice low and full of everything I’ve been too afraid to say until now.
Before she can respond, I crush my lips to hers, pouring every ounce of what I feel into the kiss. It’s not gentle, not tentative. It’s raw, consuming—like I’m handing her my soul and daring her to hold onto it. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and it feels like the world narrows to just us.
If forever exists, it’s here. It’s now. It’s her.
And I’ll fight like hell to make sure it stays that way.
Galeana Epilogue
The Mediterranean breeze brushes over my skin, warm and salt-tinged, carrying with it the faint scent of lemons from the grove just beyond the terrace. The sun dips low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and blush as the waves roll lazily against the shore.
I lean against the railing of our private balcony, my fingers tracing the smooth, sun-warmed wood. Below, the resort hums with life—the clink of glasses, soft laughter, and the distant strum of a guitar weaving through the air.
I can’t believe I’m here.
Back in Italy. Back at this same resort. But this time, everything is different.
This time, I’m not a jilted bride licking her wounds and trying to find pieces of herself in the wreckage.
This time, I’m Galeana Timberbridge.
Yes, I’m officially Mrs. Timberbridge. I’m no longer pretending to be Ledger’s wife. I’m his, just as he’s mine.
The thought makes me smile—not the polite, practiced smile I used to wear like a mask, but something softer. Something real.
Behind me, I hear the faint creak of the balcony door, and then his voice—low, smooth, and laced with just enough teasing to make my heart flutter.
“Enjoying the view, Mrs. Timberbridge?”
I turn to find Ledger leaning casually against the doorway, a glass of wine in each hand. He’s barefoot, wearing linen pants and a loose white shirt that’s rolled to the elbows, the top two buttons undone. His hair is slightly mussed, the way it always gets when he runs his hands through it, and his eyes—those sharp, impossible blue eyes—are fixed on me like I’m the only thing worth looking at.
“I am,” I say, my lips curving into a grin.
He chuckles, crossing the balcony to hand me a glass. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
I take the wine, my fingers brushing against his, and tilt my head as I study him. “You planned this, didn’t you? Bringing me back here?”
