I’m his.
Epilogue
Cole
Itake the exit into Glenmire a little too fast.
Not reckless. Just… impatient.
The truck shudders over a pothole that’s been there since I was twelve, and Ivy doesn’t even flinch.She’s got her bare feet propped on the dash, chipped red polish catching the sun, and her iPad is balanced on her knees. Her stylus moves in quick, decisive strokes because apparently the two-hour drive to my hometown is the “optimal window” to overhaul Q3 campaign projections.
She scowls at a spreadsheetthat is about to discover it’s met its match.
“We’re close, Stopwatch,” I say, reaching over to nudge her knee. “Put that data down before those Joshua trees take it personally.”
“Almost done.”Tap. Tap. Swipe.
“The sun’s bleeding over the Sierras. You’re missing it.”
“I’ve got a deadline.”
“That was your excuse when I suggested we pull over at that abandoned hotel for a quick tour… of my favorite positions.”
“That place was a tetanus party waiting to happen. And—” She looks up, eyes widening. “Wow. Okay, this is gorgeous.”
“Told ya.”
“If you gloat, I’m tossing the new lingerie I packed out the window for the coyotes to enjoy.”
“You think I’d risk the chance to see your perfect body in it first? Nuh-uh. My imagination would never forgive me.”
She slides her hand into mine like it’s second nature, fingers warm, grip sure, and then leans back, her eyes drinking in the view.
One year of this.
Of us.
Of Ivy Ellison running Dare4Change campaigns like she was born for it. Of work-closet quickies that are definitely not in the employee handbook. One year of this woman turning my chaotic life into a meticulously labeled system.
My keys have a home now. With a designated hook. My shirts are organized by “how well they showcase my forearms.” When we moved in together after six months, she presented me with a Google Doc titledCo-Habitation: A Survival Manual For The Cute But Organizationally Challenged.I deleted it immediately; she dug it out of the trash, reshared, and restricted my editing permissions.
She even labeledmeonce. A Post-it note on my chest while I slept: “Property of Ivy.” Known defects: Snores like a grizzly. Blanket thief. Thinks the trash takes itself out. Known assets: Makes me coffee before I wake up, argues like a lawyer, kisses like sin, and hugging him feels like home.
I tucked it away in my one messy drawer she hasn’t found yet.
The highway narrows. Glenmire appears gradually, then all at once. Bleached storefronts, crooked signage, and rusty pickups on both sides of the street. Mr. Delgado works outside the local hardware store, drowning some petunias with a hose. He waves like I was just here yesterday instead of a year ago.
I pull onto Main Street, and my chest glows warm.
The diner sits at the same corner. Same red hand-painted sign over the door, theHin Hartwell’s a little faded from the summer my dad skipped the second coat. Same striped awning. Same front window where my mom scribbles in the daily specials.
Home.
I park and hop out, beating her to the passenger door. I open it, and she gives me a soft smile as she steps down. She shields her eyes to look up at the sign.
“Hartwells,” she says, like she’s filing it away. “If the pie is as good as you claim, I owe you twenty bucks.”
“You’ll owe me more than that.”
