I turned to my overnight bag. I'd packed a simple black cocktail dress Friday night—when I'd been planning revenge, preparing for whatever the weekend might bring.
Now I was grateful for it.
I slipped it on. The dress fit perfectly, falling to just above my knees. I worked my hair into a low twist, pinning it secure, and used the minimal makeup I'd packed—mascara, a touch of blush, lip gloss. Nothing fancy, but enough.
When I emerged, Gil stopped adjusting his tie and just stared.
"You're stunning," he said simply.
He looked devastating in his charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, dark tie. Sophisticated and masculine and completely mine.
Or at least, I hoped he was mine.
We drove to The Pinnacle's main building as the sun set, painting the mountains pink and gold. The parking lot was already filling—the whole town turning out for Valentine's Day.
"Ready?" Gil asked, taking my hand.
I looked up at the building. The place that used to be my home. The place I'd lost. The place I was reclaiming—not as it was, but as something new.
For just a second, I was eight years old again, running through these halls while my mother planned a wedding in the events office and my father reviewed the books. I could almostsmell the pine and woodsmoke, hear the laughter of guests who'd become like family.
But that was gone. And maybe that was okay. Maybe honoring the past didn't mean clinging to it. Maybe it meant building something new worth passing on.
"Ready," I said.
We walked inside together, hand in hand, toward the ballroom where the whole town would gather. Toward whatever came next.
Together.
Chapter Six
Gil
AN HOUR LATER, WE STOODin The Pinnacle's ballroom as the crowd filled the space for the festival finale. Ruby's hand was warm in mine, her black cocktail dress showing off curves I'd spent the weekend learning. Auburn hair twisted up, green eyes bright with nerves and champagne.
"You okay?" I asked quietly.
"Better than okay." She squeezed my hand. "Ready."
That was my girl. No more hiding. No more running.
The buffet tables lined one wall, staff making final preparations. Pink and red uplighting washed the walls, candles flickering on tables, heart garlands strung from the ceiling. The live band played soft jazz—saxophone weaving through conversation—while guests mingled with champagne. The room was warm from the crowd and celebration.
This was it. In a few minutes, the whole town would know we were partners. That Ruby Flynn was coming home.
