Cheers, whistles, someone—probably Ryker—yelling something obscene about “finally locking that down.” Hallie Mae wiped at her eyes. Maude outright sobbed into her apron.
Gideon stood and I launched myself at him, arms around his neck, legs off the ground for a second as he caught me easily.
“Hi, fiancée,” he murmured against my hair.
“Hi, future husband,” I whispered back, dizzy with it.
He kissed me then, in front of everyone—possessive and careful all at once, like he wanted the whole world to know I was his.
Somewhere behind us, Portia was already shouting something about dates and venues and “don’t you dare elope without me,” and Isabel was muttering about package discounts and off-season rates.
But all of that faded to background noise.
All I knew was his mouth on mine, his heartbeat under my hands, the weight of the ring on my finger, the solid feel of the rebuilt porch beneath my feet.
Home.
Later, after champagne appeared from nowhere and toasts were made and Maude eventually bullied everyone into going home or to their rooms because “tomorrow doesn’t care that you’re in love,” Gideon and I climbed the stairs to our room.
Our room.
The once-haunted space with its crooked floors and peeling wallpaper now held a freshly painted wall, a new bed, soft lamps, and a framed photograph of the marsh at dawn that Caleb had taken without meaning to be poetic and then absolutely had been.
I closed the door behind us, the quiet falling over my shoulders like a blanket.
Gideon leaned back against the edge of the dresser, watching me. The ring caught the light when I lifted my hand, still disbelieving.
“Say it again,” I said.
He pushed off the dresser, crossing the room in three slow strides, every inch of him focused on me. His eyes were darker now, the soft lamplight turning them stormy.
“Marry me,” he said. “Tomorrow. Next year. Ten years from now. Doesn’t matter. Just … marry me.”
“I already said yes,” I whispered.
“Say it again.”
“Yes,” I breathed, heart tripping. “I’ll marry you.”
His mouth curved, something hungry and reverent moving through his expression as he reached up and brushed his thumb over the emerald. “My fiancée,” he murmured, like he was testing out a new weapon. “My future wife. My innkeeper.”
“Your what?” I laughed.
“My innkeeper,” he repeated, stepping closer until my back met the door. “My home.”
The word wrapped around me, warm and sure.
He braced one hand beside my head, the other settling low on my hip, fingers spreading over the place he always liked to anchor himself. His body heat seeped through my clothes, familiar and still somehow new every time.
“You know,” I said, voice shaky, “if we’re both going to work here, you’re going to have to learn how to fold fitted sheets.”
“Absolutely not,” he said, leaning in to skim his mouth along my jaw, the scrape of his stubble sending shivers down my spine. “I kill people who try to hurt you. I rebuild porches. I carry heavy things. You make the beds.”
“That’s not exactly a feminist division of labor,” I managed, though my hands had already found his shoulders, fingers curling into muscle I knew as well as the grain of the bannister.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, lips hovering just above mine. “Frequently.”
His kiss was slow at first—testing, savoring, like he had all the time in the world and refused to rush a second of it. I melted into him, the edges of the day—the laughter, the noise, the ring, the porch full of people—blurring until all that remained was this.
