Goosebumps pebbled my skin. “You deserved it. None of this would have happened without you.”
“No,”—he pressed his forehead to mine—“none of this would have happened without you.”
“Can you forgive me for not fighting for us back then?” I needed to hear him say it out loud. “I was young and dumb and had no idea what my dad was doing behind my back. If I had it to do all over again?—”
He cut me off with another kiss. When he pulled back, he stared at me, his eyes soft at the edges. “Let’s leave what happened in the past in the past. Just promise me that from now on, we won’t let anyone or anything drive us apart.”
That was a promise I had no hesitation in making and one I was more than willing to keep. “I promise.”
Huck tipped his forehead to mine again, his voice barely a whisper against the swell of music surrounding us. “You’re it for me, Peyton. You always have been.”
My breath hitched. “Then let’s never let go.”
He kissed me again, slow and deep, while the town we’d both once lost ourselves in danced around us. And just like that, I knew…
This time, we’d get it right.
EPILOGUE
BLAZE
My first thought,waking up in the back seat of Jensen's pickup truck, is that I'm dying. My second thought is that death might be preferable to whatever fresh hell awaits me at the end of this dirt road.
"Rise and shine, superstar." Jensen's deep voice cuts through my hangover like a chainsaw. "We're almost there."
I crack one eye open, immediately regretting it as Montana sunshine assaults my eyes. The truck bounces over another pothole, sending a fresh wave of nausea through my already fragile system.
"Could you find more bumps?" I mutter, pulling my designer sunglasses from my jacket pocket. "I don't think my head's quite split open yet."
Jensen chuckles, the sound grating against my eardrums. "City folk. Always so delicate."
The truck crests a hill, and suddenly there it is—the ranch I’ve been banished to sprawls across the valley like something from a tourism brochure. Rolling pastures, weathered wooden fences, mountains jutting up in the background like they've got somewhere important to be.
"That's it?" I ask, unable to keep the disdain from my voice.
"That's it," Jensen confirms, sounding way too cheerful. "Home sweet home for the next three months."
Three months. Ninety days of exile, courtesy of my management team, who decided that after my third tabloid scandal in as many weeks, what I really needed was "perspective" and "manual labor" and all the other bullshit euphemisms for punishment they could dream up.
The truck pulls up to a rustic log cabin that I assume passes for a main house out here. A man about my age with dark hair, worn jeans, and boots stands waiting on the porch with his arm wrapped around a curvy brunette.
"That's Shane," Jensen says. "Owner of this slice of paradise and his wife, Caitlin."
"Paradise," I repeat flatly. "No VIP passes. No after-parties. Just cow shit and empty space."
"You'll learn to love it," Jensen says, clearly not picking up on my sarcasm.
I grab my duffel—the only bag my team allowed me to bring, another part of my "rehabilitation"—and slide out of the truck. My designer boots hit dirt, and I swear I can hear them crying.
"You must be Blaze," Shane calls out, descending the porch steps. He's wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. "Orville’s told me a lot about you."
"All lies," I say automatically. "Especially the true parts."
Shane's laugh is genuine but brief. "He said you had a mouth on you. I'm Shane and this is Caitlin. This is our spread." He gestures to the vast emptiness around us like he's showing off a penthouse suite.
"Thrilled to be here," I deadpan. "Really. Can't you tell by my face?"
"You look like you went three rounds with a bottle of whiskey and lost," Shane observes.
