“For fuck’s—” Roarke drags a hand over his face.“Alright.I vote we table this, gorgeous.At least until we’re in a goat-free zone.”
I smooth my dress back into place, still laughing.“And here I thought you thrived under pressure.”
“Trust me,” he says, voice low and promising as he takes my hand, “later tonight, when it’s just you and me, I’ll show you exactly how well I perform under pressure.”
We step back into the glow and music of the party, his fingers laced through mine, and suddenly the wait feels delicious.
13
EPILOGUE: A YULETIDE YES
Three monthslater
ROARKE
It’s amazing how much can change in just ninety days.
Christmas Eve at Mémé Ada’s villa in Cannes glows like something out of a snow globe—if snow globes came with palm trees, olive groves, and the scent of roasting chestnuts drifting in from the Mediterranean.
The villa’s ancient stone walls are draped with garlands of greenery dotted with pomegranates and dried oranges, each archway outlined in warm fairy lights.
Through the windows, I glimpse long tables sagging under Ada’s legendary feast—bowls of handmade pasta, roasted fish fresh from the morning market, bread so warm it steams when broken open.
From outside, the sounds of the season inside wrap around me.
Connor’s booming voice mid-regatta story.Mémé Ada’s orders in rapid-fire French, and, of course, Isla’s high-pitched laughter ringing like bells.
My niece is everywhere.
Darting between the tables in her cranberry velvet dress.Ferrying cookies from the kitchen to the dessert table…
Sneaking more than one when she thinks no one’s watching.
Her wispy fawn hair is braided with sprigs of rosemary, courtesy of Ada.And she’s been glued to Captain Feathers all evening, teaching him “Merry Christmas.”
The bird, predictably, has gone rogue, bellowing “MARRY MIA!”instead.
Six months ago, Isla barely let me fix her hair without squirming away.Now she tugs on my hand to show me her latest drawing or to ask whether the red napkins or the gold ones look more “fancy Christmas.”
I’m not just her uncle anymore…
I’m the person she counts on to keep my promises.And I’ve learned the weight and worth of that trust.
I should be inside with her.But I’m on the terrace, staring down at the harbor where theMia Bellawaits.
Thirty feet of sleek, white promise with the woman I love’s name in shining gold script along the hull.
And my hands are shaking like a rookie sailor in rough seas.
Connor sidles up with two glasses of Ada’s lethal Christmas punch—champagne, citrus, and something that tastes suspiciously like brandy.“You keep pacing like that, you’ll wear a groove into the terrace.And you’ve checked your watch more than a man waiting for a merger to close.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure,” he says.“And Captain Feathers is subtle.”
As if on cue: “MARRY MIA!MARRY MIA!”echoes from inside, followed by Isla’s delighted giggle.
Donovan joins us, whiskey in hand.“In hospitality, we call this pre-launch panic.”
