My breath caught where his hand held me.
His eyes held mine. “I half wonder if I'm not already there.”
My hand found his chest. His heart beat hard beneath my palm, steady enough to trust and fast enough to give him away.
“That sounds dangerous,” I said.
My mouth curved before I could stop it.
His thumb moved again, warm over ink and skin and the life I had built before him. “I’m not asking you to get there tonight.”
“Good.”
His eyebrow moved.
I looked at the mark low on his throat, the one I had put there, then back to his eyes. They were steady and tired and entirely too aware of what he had done to my breathing.
“I’d hate to be rushed into admitting you’re not exactly difficult to fall in love with either,” I said.
His hand tightened at my back once before he let his grip ease.
His mouth softened, but his hand stayed warm over the ink at my back.
“I can wait.”
“I know.”
And I did. That was the dangerous part. Nick Mercer knew how to wait. How to stay steady. How to touch me like patience was not distance, but proof.
The fronds shifted overhead as a warm, breathing silence settled over us, and I closed my eyes against his chest.
“When you leave this time,” I said, “come back to me.”
His lips brushed my hair. “Always.”
Chapter 37
Epilogue: All the Moving Parts
JULIETTE
EightMonthsLater
By six-thirty, my backyard had achieved the exact legal threshold between family gathering and operational incident.
There were citronella candles burning along the edge of the patio, two ceiling fans pushing warm air in lazy circles over the covered terrace, and enough food spread across the outdoor table to feed a small diplomatic delegation or one Wilder family with poor portion boundaries.
Florida had settled into its June personality, which meant the air was warm, damp, fragrant with salt and cut grass, and entirely committed to ruining everyone’s hair. The sun hung low over Maris Key, turning the palms gold at the edges and laying asoft sheen across the pool. Beyond the hedge, the bay moved in quiet flashes of silver.
Inside the house, the air-conditioning was losing a war against five Wilder sisters, four men, one teenager, an intern with dangerous initiative, and a catering delivery that arrived seventeen minutes late despite my explicit written instructions and the existence of GPS.
A pen sat beside my notebook on the outdoor bar, untouched. For once, my fingers had found other things to do.
“Juliette,” Summer said from beside the outdoor bar, holding a tray of lemon wedges with the expression of a woman who had discovered inefficiency in a sacred institution. “Why is there no separate ice bucket for non-alcoholic beverages?”
“Because this is a backyard dinner, not a beverage compliance review.”
“It's still a preventable bottleneck.”
