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Anne: Charles Milton seemed to be a good friend of my mom’s.
Naomi: Are you okay?
Anne: I am. And you?
I hesitate, because I’m not just writing it on autopilot to give the answer people want to hear instead of what I’m really feeling.
Naomi: I am, too.
I switch over to the chat with Brandon.
Naomi: Done.
Brandon: Come home to me, cupcake.
I’m not running from something. I’m running towards it. Towards Brandon, towards our future, towards the person I want to be.
I smile. A real, genuine smile that reaches my eyes.
I’ve made my choice. I choose us. I choose life.
EPILOGUE
NAOMI
Twelve empty plates, save for the smears of chocolate and scattered crumbs. The scent of roasted garlic and caramelized sugar still lingers in the air, mixing with the warmth of wine and laughter.
Twelve people who actually showed up for us. The candlelight flickers against the exposed brick walls, reflecting in Brandon’s tired but contented eyes.
What’s now his—ours.
Blake meets my gaze from across the table, her smile genuine even as her eyes are glazed. Next to her, Serena’s perfectly manicured fingers trace the rim of her wine glass while she pretends not to eye-fuck Elliot.
“The food was incredible.” Sebastian’s arm is draped around Lil’s shoulders. “Though I expected nothing less.”
Brandon’s shoulder brushes mine as he shifts in his chair, and I feel the tension in him ease slightly at the praise, though he’d rather die than admit it.
“For once, I have nothing to criticize,” Elijah says. “I suppose this means you’re not coming back to the company.”
“Not a chance in hell.” Brandon’s hand finds my thigh under the table, his thumb tracing absent circles. “I have been cooking for twelve hours straight.”
“Fourteen,” I correct, earning a squeeze.
Mary leans forward, her eyes bright. “Everything was amazing. And the pasta. Didn’t know something with vodka would taste so delicious. Connor literally moaned.”
“I did not.” His ears redden a bit.
“You absolutely did.” Gemma’s grinning. “Right after you said?—”
“Moving on,” Connor cuts in, but his lips twitch. “When’s the official opening, Bran Bran?”
Mykel pipes up from the end of the table. “Better be soon. I need somewhere to bring dates that aren’t Dad’s stuffy country club.”
“Because that’s such a hardship for you.” Anne leans into Landon.
“Two weeks.” Brandon’s voice is steady despite the way his fingers dig into my thigh. “Assuming the health department doesn’t fuck us over.”
“They won’t,” Blake says. “I’ve got it handled.”