Duke releases me and wipes under his eyes. It’s easy to see a weight has been lifted.
“Priti, that’s incredible,” he says. “Thank you for believing in this project. And thank you for sending this hell on heels my way.”
Priti’s laugh fills the room. “I love you both. Roxanne, let’s work out your next assignment soon. For now, I expect you to take a break. No pitches, no deadlines. Take some time. You’ve earned it.”
When the call ends, Duke and I stare at each other, caught somewhere between disbelief and relief.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Still can’t believe we got second. There were so many worthy communities.”
“You’ll be able to do so much good with that ten million dollars.”
He nods, eyes bright. “And thanks to Charlie, Jolene Fox, and others, we’ve got another eight million in private donations. That means the therapy wing, the new cabins, even expansion into winter programs—it’s all going to happen.”
I smiled, tears threatening. “So Firebird’s safe?”
He stepped closer, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Safe and thriving. You did that, Trouble.”
“Wedid that,” I corrected.
He presses his forehead to mine. “So what now?”
“Now?” I grin. “Now we figure out what ‘next’ looks like. Maybe both coasts. Maybe both worlds.”
He laughs softly. “Firebird East and Firebird West.”
“I like it,” I say, though I can already see it—the story still unfolding. Multiple locations to help vets all across the nation.
Priti stayed true to her word and insisted I take a long break before my next assignment. Duke agreed to “try on” New York for a while, and he still managed to Zoom with Rusty and Topper every morning to talk shop about the ranch.
Over the next two weeks, I showed him my New York—the one that doesn’t make it into the movies. We walked the High Line at sunrise with Birch Coffee in hand, wandered the Ramble’s quiet trails, and ended a night tucked into a tiny jazz club on Seventh Avenue, the music soft enough that he could still hear me laugh.
At Katz’s Deli, I finally introduce him to a proper pastrami sandwich.
“How am I supposed to eat this?” he asked, staring at the tower of meat between two trembling slices of rye.
“With your hands, obviously.”
He picked it up like it might detonate. “I’ve wrestled steers smaller than this.”
“Just take a bite.”
When he finally did, an animal sound escaped him. “Okay,” he said, mouth full. “You were right about this one.”
“Obviously.”
Meeting his family was the best part. His mother, Francine, welcomed me like I’d been part of the family for years. London hugged me the second we met, and Byrdie—bright-eyed and unstoppable—had Duke braiding her hair before dessert. Watching him with them nearly undid me. He was so gentle, so sure of himself, and yet there was a restlessness beneath it all, like even surrounded by laughter, he was still wishing he could hear the wind through the aspens.
After a walk home after dinner one night, he slipped his hand into mine.
“You were right,” he said quietly.
“About what?”
“You really do have the best bagels on Earth.”
I laughed, bumping his shoulder. “You can admit you like it here.”
“I do,” he said after a beat. “But, you know …”
