EPILOGUE
LONDON
Summer in Swift Mountain smells like pine trees, wildflowers, and more sunscreen than you’d think.
Apparently tourists from the lower forty-eight see one moose crossing sign and immediately assume they’re entering an untamed wilderness where SPF fifty becomes a survival requirement.
“You’re staring again.”
I glance up from the circulation desk to find Troy leaning against the front counter with one broad shoulder, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes and one giant hand wrapped around an iced coffee.
The sight still does ridiculous things to me.
Especially because he’s smiling.
In public.
Terrible Troy Taylor smiling in public used to be considered a Big Foot-level sighting in Swift Mountain. Now he smiles at me almost daily.
The entire town is adjusting to this new side of him. Slowly.
“I wasn’t staring,” I lie.
“You absolutely were.”
I grin.
“Can you blame me? You’re very pretty.”
Troy snorts softly while Ethel nearly drops an entire stack of paperback mysteries nearby.
Bernice elbows her immediately.
Neither woman has recovered from the fact that the outlaw on the mountain apparently turned out to be:
A) a former nanny
B) a fan of Jane Austen
C) completely obsessed with the librarian
And the full answer, D) all of the above.
“Ready?” Troy asks.
Warmth blooms instantly in my chest.
Six months together, and I still melt every time he looks at me like I’m his favorite thing in the world. It’ll never get old.
“Absolutely.”
I grab my bag and wave goodbye to Ethel and Bernice before following Troy outside into the warm summer evening.
The truck ride up the mountain feels different now. It doesn’t mean venturing into unchartered territory.
It means going home.
The wildflowers along the road have fully bloomed, soft purple and yellow patches spreading across the hillsides while evening sunlight filters gold through the trees.
