“What are we going to name him?” she asked.
Relief hit me so hard, I almost laughed. “Whatever you want.”
She looked at the dog, who’d finally edged to the front of the kennel. “How about Lucky?”
“Lucky?”
“I panicked, blocked your driveway, and somehow ended up with the best night of my life and a dog.” She touched my face. “That feels like luck to me.”
I kissed her palm. “Lucky it is.”
She kissed me then—soft, sweet, tasting faintly of tears.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” she said. “I believe things happen for a reason.”
“And this?”
“I think I was meant to find you.” Her smile widened. “Both of you.”
Together, we opened the kennel and coaxed Lucky out. He hesitated only a moment before walking straight to Josie.
Watching them, I saw the future clearly—quiet mornings in this cabin, evenings built piece by piece, a life I didn’t have to face alone.
I’d spent twelve years convincing myself I didn’t need anyone.
Turns out, I just needed her.
EPILOGUE
JOSIE: 5 YEARS LATER
The house was too quiet.
I stood in the kitchen, holding a mug of decaf, listening to the absence of noise. No tiny feet pounding the floor. No questions about breakfast or the color of the sky. No Leilani insisting Lucky needed a tutu.
Our three-year-old was at Peyton and Warrick’s for the morning. Peyton had practically shoved me out the door when I dropped her off, hands planted on her hips.
“You’re six months pregnant. Go home. Rest. Let your husband take care of you.”
I’d agreed—mostly because my back ached, my ankles were swollen, and a quiet morning sounded like heaven.
Now, standing alone in the silence, I wasn’t so sure.
Lucky lifted his head from his bed by the fireplace, watching me with those too-smart eyes. He’d grown from a skittish rescue into a gentle shadow, letting Leilani use him as a pillow and following me everywhere.
“Where’s Daddy?” I asked him, even though I already knew.
The workshop.
Roarke had been out there constantly for two weeks, working on something he refused to show me. “It’s a surprise,” he’d said, that rare smile tugging at his mouth.
The baby was due in three months, and we still didn’t have a crib. Every piece of furniture in our bedroom had been crafted by his hands. Of course he was building something.
I set the mug in the sink and headed for the back door. The air outside was crisp with sawdust and pine. Fall had settled over the mountains, leaves blazing gold and rust.
The workshop sat fifty feet from the cabin, expanded twice since we’d married. His custom furniture business had taken off in ways neither of us expected—a write-up in a regional magazine, a waitlist of clients, pieces shipping as far as California. I helped with the bookkeeping between my own work, drafting legal documents from home for a firm in Charlotte. It wasn’t the property management career I’d once imagined, but it let me be present for Leilani while still using my paralegal training.
We’d built a life that worked.
