“He got fired from his new job after accidentally sending rather compromising pictures of himself to his boss.”
I pressed my lips together, working hard to keep the glee off my face. Julian had worked fast then.
Charles spun his head to look at me, and I innocently held up both of my hands. “It wasn’t me.”
Which, technically, was true.
Charles’s eyes narrowed, as if he sensed that I may not have done it myself but that I damn well orchestrated it, but then he relaxed. A slight smile played on his lips. “I guess karma got him in the end.”
“Never did like him,” Tom muttered into his wine. “Always thought there was something shifty about that boy.”
“You were right,” Charles said. “On multiple counts.”
“Well, good riddance to bad rubbish,” Patricia said firmly. “We much prefer Eamon.”
“You just met me,” I pointed out.
“And you’ve already proven yourself worthy by making our son happy,” she replied matter-of-factly. “That’s all the recommendation I need.”
The simple acceptance stole my breath. These people barely knew me, but they were willing to welcome me into their family based solely on Charles’s happiness.
“Besides,” Tom added with a grin, “anyone willing toleave New York for Charming clearly has his priorities straight.”
“I heard the town grows on you,” I said, glancing at Charles. “Once you find the right reason to stay.”
The evening continued with easy conversation and shared laughter. Patricia insisted I call her Mom before we finished the main course, and Tom was already planning fishing trips we could take together. They treated me not as an outsider trying to earn acceptance, but as someone who already belonged.
“That went well,” Charles said as we did the dishes together. “I told you they’d love you.”
I dried a plate with careful attention, trying to process the magnitude of what had just happened. “They really accepted me. Just like that.”
“Of course they did.” Charles bumped my shoulder with his. “You’re part of my life now, which makes you part of theirs. That’s how family works.”
Family. The word carried weight I was still learning to understand. For centuries, I’d protected families without ever being part of one. Now I had a place at the table, people who cared about my happiness, a future filled with Sunday dinners and holiday gatherings and all the beautiful, mundane moments that made mortal life precious.
It made me miss my ma, but this time, it felt different. That sharp sting I’d always felt at her absence was softer now, less painful. As if finding a new family had made losing my own a little more bearable.
The words settled into my chest like warmth, like coming home after a very long journey. This was what I’d given up immortality for—not just Charles’s love, but this sense of belonging, of being part of something larger thanmyself in an entirely different way than my angelic duties had provided.
“I love you,” I said, pulling him close.
“I love you too,” he murmured against my shoulder. “Welcome to the family, Deputy O’Rourke.”
Deputy O’Rourke. The title sounded right in a way Detective O’Rourke never had. A new identity for a new life, built on truth instead of divine deception.
I was home.
THIRTY-ONE
EAMON
The warm light from Sweet Relief’swork area cast everything in a golden glow, making Charles look like something out of a Renaissance painting. He stood at the central station, completely absorbed in his work on what had to be the most elaborate wedding cake I’d seen him create—three tiers of ivory fondant decorated with intricate sugar work that looked more like art than food.
I sat in the corner chair Charles had designated as “mine,” supposedly reading the day-old newspaper but really just watching him work. The bakery had been closed for two hours, but Charles had wanted to finish the final details on tomorrow’s delivery, and I was more than happy to keep him company.
There was something mesmerizing about watching him in his element. His hands moved with practiced precision as he piped delicate roses along the cake’s borders, each petal formed with the kind of skill that came from years of dedication. Every few minutes, he’d step back to assess his progress, head tilted slightly, completely lost in the creative process.
This was what I’d traded immortality for—not just Charles himself, but moments like these. The quiet domestic intimacy of sharing someone’s workspace, being welcome in their sanctuary, watching genius at work without the weight of cosmic duty pressing down on my shoulders.
