“Yeah.” He laughed, then sobered up. “I’m glad you’re staying, Noah. And I’m glad you and Lew have each other. You’re good for him.”
“Eh, I’m—”
Ollie was about to say something but looked around when the bedroom door opened. Lew stepped out in nothing but grey joggers. His thick pecs plumped even more when he yawned widely.
Holy shit, he’s so sexy.
“Morning.” He raised a hand at the two of us.
Ollie’s face flushed, but he kept it together.
“Mornin’, Lew,” he greeted his best friend. “I should have known I’d see you here.”
“As if I’d let Noah go without a fight.” Lew winked at me before he disappeared in the bathroom.
“I was too caught up in my own shit to notice, but he’s been happier than I’ve ever seen him.”
He covered his hand with mine when I reached out and squeezed his forearm.
“Thanks, Ollie. By the way,”—I glanced at the bathroom door—“we got engaged yesterday.”
“Wow.” Ollie swallowed hard. “I won’t say it’s not something I’ll have to get used to.” My brother palmed my shoulder. “He’s so disgustingly in love with you. I’m so happy for you, Noah.”
He got up and hugged me the way he’d hugged me as a child, and I knew everything would be okay in the end.
Our start had been a rocky one, but my future husband and I would find that sweet spot. The perfect place between pain and pleasure, woven together so tightly that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
We had the rest of our lives to figure it out.
Epilogue
Lewis
Bright blue skies stretched over our heads as far as the eye could see on the day we got married.
We had decided to tie the knot on the beach in Port Cillean, the same beach I had taken him to about a week after Valentine’s Day and asked him to marry me for real, with a ring and all.
We looked dashing in the matching wedding kilts in dark blue, grey, and yellow that we’d bought from Liam Bell, Fitz’s kiltmaker.
“Nervous, Puppy?” I whispered as we marched across the stretch of sand to the little table they had set up.
“Oh my God, yes, of course. You?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life, though.” He squeezed my hand. “You were never my plan B, Lewis Sinclair. You are my home.”
Noah would be thirty in a week, and he chose me. I had no idea what kind of lucky gods had been conspiring in our favour, but Grace, Lone Fox’s wedding planner, had managed to get an appointment for us at short notice.
Or maybe we’re the only ones optimistic enough to have a beach wedding in March.
She had booked the cottage, the officiant, a wedding photographer, and our wedding dinner in a restaurant in a lighthouse a few miles away. She’d even organised flowers for Noah.
Grace had loved the idea when I suggested it. Seeing his eyes light up when she handed him the bouquet was everything I needed to know.
Our officiant, a Finwife in a floating silvery green dress, approached us. Dark curls framed her face and tattoos decorated her brown skin.
No wonder people let the Finfolk abduct them from the beaches if they look like this.
