My phone buzzed. I pulled it out, glanced at the screen. A text from Wolfe.
We’re fine. Stop asking.
I showed Allegra.
She raised an eyebrow. “We?”
“Long story.” I pocketed the phone and looked up at the sky. The clouds were thinning, the snow finally tapering off. By morning, the roads would be clear.
But I wasn’t thinking about roads. I was thinking about the woman in my arms.
“So,” I said, grinning down at her. “What’s for dinner?”
She laughed, and the sound settled into my chest like coming home.
EPILOGUE
ALLEGRA: 5 YEARS LATER
The dinner rush had thinned, but Hux was still in his booth.
He’d claimed that corner table the night we opened—champagne in hand, that crooked grin that had always undone me—and that had become his spot. Every night he wasn’t on call, right in my line of sight from the pass-through. A constant.
Tonight, our daughter sat across from him, curls flying as she attacked a bowl of mac and cheese with more enthusiasm than accuracy. Elsie had Hux’s appetite and my stubborn streak, which meant the table—and her face—were taking the brunt of it.
I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped out of the kitchen. The restaurant was small—twelve tables, exposed brick, vintage firefighter gear on the walls—but it was mine. Farm-to-table Southern food. Warm. Real. The local paper called it the best date-night spot in the valley. I’d once dreamed bigger, shinier. Instead, I’d built something better.
“Mama.” Elsie waved, cheese and all.
“Hey, baby.” I kissed her forehead, dodging the mess. “Food goes in your mouth.”
“She gets that from you,” Hux said. “Remember the flour incident?”
“That was one time.” I pressed a hand to my aching lower back. I was only four months pregnant, but these closing shifts were already brutal. “And you promised never to mention it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
He was watching me—the same way he always did. His gaze softened as it dropped to my belly. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I swallowed a bowling ball.” I kissed him, quick and sweet. “Two more tables.”
“I’ll be here.”
He always was.
An hour later, the last guests were gone. My parents had picked up a sleeping Elsie, and the kitchen was quiet. When I stepped into the dining room, the candles on Hux’s table were still lit.
“Everyone’s gone,” he said.
“I noticed.” I untied my apron as I walked toward him.
“You know,” he said, catching my hand, “we’ve never christened this table.”
I laughed. “We have a child. I’m pregnant. I think things have been christened.”
“Not here.” He pulled me into his lap. “Not where we built this.”
My breath caught—because four years in, he still knew exactly how to undo me.
