Of course it does. Grammie Bea planned for this. Probably sized it herself somehow, the crafty old woman.
Sierra stares at her hand like she can't believe it's real.
Then she peers down at me, and her smile—God, hersmile—makes me want things I've never let myself want. Little faces with her eyes. Tiny hands learning to hold a hammer.
“I love you,” she whispers.
I lean in, brush my lips against hers. “I love you too. Since you kissed me back from behind that camera. Since you were seventeen and breaking my heart. Since you walked back into this lodge with a vengeance, fueled it with bourbon, and pretended you didn't feel the same thing I did.”
“I wasn't pretending?—”
“You were. But it's okay.” I kiss her again, deeper this time, not caring about the audience. “You're done running now.”
“I'm done running,” she agrees against my mouth.
The room explodes.
Holly's shriek could shatter the snowmen display. Charlie's crying into Nick’s shoulder. Caleb shouts something about finally being an uncle that makes zero logical sense but somehow fits.
Roman mutters, “Oh, for fuck's sake,” but there's no heat in it.
And Nolan—quiet, watchful Nolan—raises his glass in a silent toast.
Because he knew.
He always knew.
Grammie Bea…wherever you are—thank you.
For the ring.
For the meddling.
For knowing before we did.
For giving us the permission we were too scared to giveourselves.
Sierra's arms wrap around my neck, pulling me close, and I bury my face in her hair.
Home.
Epilogue
Sierra
Six monthslater
“Sierra, I swear to God, if you don't stop trying to peek?—”
“I'm not peeking!”
“Your hand is literally on the doorknob.”
I snatch my hand back like the brass just burned me. “I was... checking the temperature. Of the door. For historical purposes.”
Everett crosses his arms and leans against the wall, blocking my path to the great room with the full width of his shoulders. Which is considerable. And distracting. And he knows it, the smug bastard.
“Historical purposes,” he repeats flatly.
