The front door clicks. I hear Leo humming—Sinatra, maybe—and a second later, there he is: hair wind-tossed, grocery bag dangling from his hand. He takes one look at me sprawledacross his bed, bare skin tangled in his sheets, and his grin curves slow and wicked.
“Hot damn, woman,” he says, voice warm with mischief, “take a look at that ass. The square root of negative one isn’t the only thing that’s unreal.”
I burst out laughing, tossing a pillow at him. He dodges, still grinning like a fool.
“Breakfast of champions, coming right up,” he says, lifting the bag. “Raspberry sherbet. Don’t say I don’t spoil you.”
“Sherbet for breakfast?” I tease, propping myself up on an elbow. “What kind of man are you?”
Leo kicks off his shoes and plops onto the bed next to me, back against the headboard. I adjust my pillows and join him, dragging the comforter along with me.
“The kind who knows better than to give his girlfriend scrambled eggs when her tongue looks like it went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest warms anyway.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, leaning down to brush a soft kiss against my lips, “you’re still here.”
The kiss lingers in me even after he pulls back—light, certain, grounding.
Last night was just the first night of many, but it felt like a glimpse into something bigger. Not a promise of perfection, but of possibility—of dinners that turn into laughter, of stolen kisses in kitchens, of late nights that spill over into mornings.
And this life, this future, includes so much more than just the two of us. It’ll be Skye with her unfiltered honesty, Alis with her quick wit and tender heart, Sunny pulling us into plans we never see coming, Dexter posturing himself as the refined one while secretly enjoying the madness. A whole family of people who remind us that love and joy are multifaceted, and beautiful, and complicated, and real.
Life with Leo will always lean toward the unexpected, a little messy, a little absurd—but as long as we are true to ourselves and surrounded by the people we love, it will never, ever be dull.
And if things ever get too quiet?
Well…Lois has a key.
EPILOGUE ONE
SKYE
STERLING LAW GROUP.Fancy.
The receptionist leads us down a hallway lined with polished wood and brass nameplates, like every door is guarding a secret club. The air feels heavy with formality, the kind that makes people sit straighter in their chairs and whisper instead of talk. My combat boots thump against the carpet, my jean skirt brushing against my thighs, leather jacket creaking as I fold my arms.
Do I look out of place here? Hell yes. Do I care? Not even a little.
Beside me, Tori is all steel. Her shoulders are squared, chin high, lips pressed together like she’s holding the world between her teeth. I know that look—it’s the one she wears when she’s fighting her nerves with sheer willpower. She’s been through hell and back, and this… this is her line in the sand.
I feel a rush of pride so strong it almost steals my breath. She’s walking into this office to take her life back, and if anyone tries to push her down again, I’ll fuck them up.
We stop at a door. The receptionist knocks lightly and opens it.
“Ms. Foster, Ms. Kennedy—Mr. Sterling will see you now.” What was I saying about a secret club? Because the way she just said that definitely sounded like we were being escorted into a private VIP room at a sex club.
Inside, the man himself stands with his back to us, phone pressed to his ear, gaze fixed on a bookshelf stuffed with leather-bound volumes. His posture is as rigid as his tone, voice clipped and precise. Even without seeing his face, I can tell he’s the kind of man who never leaves a paper out of place.
Yes, sir.
The call ends. Which reminds me—shit. I forgot to turn my phone on silent before walking in here.
I hear him walk across the room and introduce himself to Tori. “Ms. Foster?”
Tori shakes his hand, steady, calm. “Yes. Thank you for meeting with me.”
