They ate breakfast in the quiet kitchen, sun climbing higher, the day stretching ahead of them. Meg kept catching herself looking at Luke — at the way heheld his fork, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he looked at her like she was something precious and permanent.
Over twenty years he’d waited.
And now here they were. In his kitchen. Engaged. Because he’d woken up and decided the perfect moment was whatever moment they were already in.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Luke said.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re surprised this is happening.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m...” She searched for the word. “Grateful. That you waited. That you didn’t give up.”
“I never would have given up.” He reached across the table, covered her hand with his. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
“Even twenty years?”
“Even twenty years.” His thumb stroked her knuckles. “Though I’m glad we’re done with the waiting part.”
“Me too.”
They finished breakfast. Washed the dishes together. Settled on the couch with their laptops, working side by side, shoulders touching.
Normal. Ordinary. Theirs.
And underneath it all, humming like a current — the knowledge that everything had changed. That this was the beginning of something, not just the continuation.
At one-thirty, Meg closed her laptop.
“Client call,” she said.
“Research meeting prep,” Luke agreed.
They looked at each other.
“One more day,” Meg said. “Tomorrow we tell everyone.”
“Tomorrow we tell everyone.”
“And then the chaos begins.”
“The chaos already began.” Luke kissed her cheek. “As soon as you came back to Laguna. This is just the next chapter.”
Meg smiled. Picked up her laptop. Headed for the spare room that had become her office, in the house that had become her home, with the man who had become her future.
The next chapter.
She liked the sound of that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bea had outdone herself.
The Beach Shack was transformed. Streamers hung from the ceiling—carefully placed to avoid the shells, which Joey had insisted was “non-negotiable.” A banner stretched across the counter reading “BON VOYAGE, JOEY” in glittery letters that Bea had spent three hours creating. Balloons clustered in the corners, and someone had assembled a photo display of Joey’s greatest hits: Joey perfecting his napkin technique, Joey demonstrating the sacred art of straw angles, Joey lying on the floor after the crisis shift looking like he’d survived a war.
“This is too much,” Joey said, for the fourteenth time since arriving. “This is way too much.”
“This is exactly the right amount,” Bernie corrected from his corner booth. “A man doesn’t leave for higher education without a proper send-off.”
