Outside, stars emerge one by one across the mountain sky. Inside, I hold everything I didn't think I deserved; this woman, this peace, this future we're building together.
Last week, I let fear make decisions for me.
Tonight I'm engaged to the woman who grabbed my hand and refused to let me sink.
Tonight I'm home.
And I'm never running again.
Chapter nine
Epilogue - Elorie - Spring
Brooks walks through The Reading Nook's door at seven a.m. carrying two coffees and his look that still makes my lungs forget how to work after so many mornings just like this.
"Brought you the good stuff." He crosses to where I'm restocking pastries, and his hand finds my hip automatically. Possessive. Grounding. The touch sends sparks shooting under my skin even though he did the same thing an hour ago in our kitchen. "Thought you could use it before the Saturday rush."
I take the cup of local roast, my favorite and not something we brew in the bookstore, and his fingers linger against mine. Rough calluses. Warm skin. The size difference between his hand and mine never stops making my stomach flip.
"You're spoiling me."
"That's the plan." He leans down, his mouth brushing my ear. "Three weeks, Elorie."
Three weeks until I'm his wife. Until we stand on Eagle's Crest with the mountains framing us and make promises we've been keeping for what feels like forever. My hand trembles slightly, and he steadies it, thumb tracing circles against my wrist.
"I can't wait that long," I whisper.
"We could elope."
"Your brother would kill us. Emma's already planned half the reception."
"It would be worth it." His lips find that spot below my ear that makes my knees weak. "You in a pretty dress. Me getting you out of it. Sounds like a perfect wedding night preview."
Heat floods my pussy. A pretty dress. One of the dresses currently hanging in my closet, waiting for tonight. They end up on the bedroom floor more often than they stay on my body.
"Brooks." His name comes out breathless.
"Tonight," he promises against my throat. "Wear it so I can take it off you."
Then he's gone, the door chiming behind him, and I'm left gripping the counter while my pulse hammers and Sophie appears from the back room with that knowing smile already spreading across her face.
"You're glowing."
"Am not." But my cheeks burn, and I can't stop touching the simple ring on my finger that reminds me I'm his. Three more weeks until I add the wedding band, but really, we've been married since that first storm. Since he walked through this door during a thunderclap and refused to leave me alone in the dark.
"Engagement looks good on you." Sophie hands me a clipboard. "Three more weeks until you're officially Mrs. Maddox."
The name settles warm in my chest. Mrs. Brooks Maddox. Elorie Maddox. Mine and his, tangled together permanently.
"Emma called this morning." Sophie's grin turns wicked. "She's threatening to bring extra goats to the reception."
We both dissolve into laughter. Grant's escape-prone goats have become legendary: two more broke free this week, and Emma swears they're plotting against her. Brooks groans everytime they're mentioned, but I catch the fondness underneath. It’s nice to call them my family.
The morning rush swirls around us. Carla pulls perfect shots at the espresso machine. Linda and Margaret, and the rest of the book club, debate their latest book boyfriends at the corner table. Through the windows, spring sunlight illuminates the herb garden, spilling green life across our brick patio. Tourists claim every outdoor seat, and the air smells like basil and fresh pastries and the kind of peace I didn't think I'd ever find.
The patio I designed stretches twenty feet, packed with people who drove an hour for our lavender lattes. The raised beds Brooks built with his own hands overflow with rosemary, thyme, basil. We planted them together, my fingers digging into dark earth while something shifted inside me. This is what growing looks like. What staying means.
All those months ago, I was fleeing Denver in a rainstorm, certain I'd never stop running. Now look. Roots don't have to be ancient to be real. They just have to be tended. And I tend these. The bookstore. The garden. The man who looked at me during a storm and decided I was worth staying for.
