"You. This. A life worth living instead of one frozen in the past." She rose on her toes, kissed me softly. "Building something new that honors what came before. Partnership with someone who sees me—really sees me."
I kissed her instead of answering—tender and thorough, tasting champagne and her.
When we broke apart, breathless, snow had started falling.
"We should talk timeline," I said. "Three to four months to hire staff, finalize menu, soft opening before summer season?"
"That works. And Rise & Grind..."
"Becomes Flynn's Table Catering. Keep your established following, expand the business."
She leaned in, eager. "You've already thought this through."
"I'm a businessman. It's what I do." I pulled her closer. "And I want you to move in. Officially. Not just staying at my place—our place. Your name on everything."
"When?" she asked softly.
"Whenever you're ready. Tomorrow. Next week. I'm ready now."
She laughed. "Tomorrow might be rushing it."
"Then next week." I kissed her forehead. "I meant what I said up there. This is real. Not casual, not temporary. I'm building this life with you."
"I know." Her voice was soft. "It's real for me too."
We stood like that as the snow fell heavier. The party continued inside. Finally, Ruby pulled back with a smile.
"We should go in. People will talk."
"They're already talking."
"Fair point." She grinned. "But I want to enjoy the rest of tonight. Dance with my partner. Celebrate our future."
I took her hand. We walked back inside toward the warmth and light, toward the music and the town that was becoming ours, toward the life we were creating—not separately, but side by side.
Epilogue
Ruby
THREE MONTHS LATER, I stood in my kitchen wearing pristine chef's whites, commanding a full brigade.
Late May meant snow still crowned the distant peaks visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but the valleys had turned green and alive. Flynn's Table was fully booked for opening night—reservations already backed up for months. Word had spread through the food community faster than I'd expected.
"Plating for table seven," I called, my hands moving fast. Seared duck breast, fanned and glistening, nestled against roasted fingerling potatoes I'd sourced from a farm twenty minutes away. Microgreens from the resort greenhouse. Local huckleberry gastrique catching light like jewels.
