I look at Samuel. Samuel looks at me.
“If that’s what you think is best, then I wholeheartedly support you,” I say, turning back to Hank. “You’ll let us know if you need anything?”
“I will,” he replies, and the emphatic way he says it makes me believe him.
The alarm on Samuel’s phone goes off, and less than a minute later, the rest of the Beauregards reappear in the kitchen. Samuel pulls a gigantic beef tenderloin out of the oven—“Look at that beautiful herb crust. Damn I’m good”—while I decant a couple of bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon. Hank grabs a pair of potholders and lifts a pot of mashed potatoes off the range, setting it on the dining room table. Maisie pulls Rhett’s hair, and June, Milly, and Lindsey gawk over the antique silverware Milly brought before setting it on the table too. Annabel slides a spoon into a dish of squash gratin, biting her lip when Beau presses a quick kiss to the back of her neck.
“You.” Samuel points at me. “Fill your wineglass and sit your ass down at the table. You’re our honored guest, so no more working, you hear?”
I smile. “You gonna make me?”
“Y’all really are adorable, but you’re also kinda dirty,” Milly says. “It’s gross, but awesome.”
Samuel meets my eyes. “Milly, you got no idea. In the bedroom, in the shower, on the internet…”
“Eww, can you not please?” Beau asks. “Maisie’s taking a mental note of every damn word you’re saying. How much you wanna bet her first sentence is gonna be, ‘Uncle Samuel and Aunt Emma get dirty on the internet’? I’ll disown all y’all, I will.”
I catch Lindsey’s gaze across the dining room. She’s got this big, happy smile on her face, like she knows how cool it is that Beau just called me Aunt Emma.
I just became an aunt.
We haven’t started eating yet, but I’m already full.
Full of love.
Full of gratitude.
Full of this bone-deep contentment I’ve never experienced before.
Milly has clearly worked her magic: the table is set with gorgeous floral arrangements, and the china, glassware, and cloth napkins all sport a matching lavender-and-peacock blue theme.
Sitting next to Samuel at the table, surrounded by our family and friends, I feel safe. I feel seen.
I feel loved for who I am. And that might just be the best kind of love of all.
Samuel reaches under the table and grabs my hand. “So do I call you Emma now, or V, or Lady…”
“Why choose?” I flash him my shoes. “I’m all three.”
“You’re you.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “And you’ve shown me how to be me.”
I arch a brow. “How much are you gonna show me tonight?”
His eyes flash with a familiar heat. “How much you wanna see?”
“All of it. Whatever’s real.”
“It’s yours,” he says. “I’m yours.”
A few hours later, he makes good on that promise right there on the dining room table. And again in the kitchen. And twice in his bed, and three times (yes, three) in the shower.
If that’s not a happy ending to Blue and V’s story, I don’t know what is.
THE END
Epilogue
Hank
I have to get the fuck out of here.
Yanking my sweater over my head, it’s the first thought I have when I walk into my house after Sunday supper. I’m a little drunk and a lot worn out from playing nice.
From pretending that seeing Samuel and Emma so damn happy together doesn’t make me feel like dying.
I grab a fifth of Appalachian Red whiskey from my liquor cabinet and take a pull straight from the bottle. It burns a trail of fire down my throat.
It does nothing to lessen the intense ache inside my chest.
Doesn’t stop me from taking another swig before I set down the bottle and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
I glance around my pristine, silent kitchen. Not so much as a glass or napkin out of place. Probably because I don’t really live here.
Sure, I sleep in the bed every night and get ready in the gleaming master bathroom every morning, but otherwise, I’m hustling around the resort.
Work has become my life. And it took falling in love with my brother’s girlfriend to see how much I’m missing out on.
So fuck it. What do I have left to lose? I’m gonna stop putting my family first and give myself the top spot instead. I’ll do what I want when I want to do it.
I want to travel.
I want to fuck around.
I want to meet people who’ve never heard of Blue Mountain.
Tomorrow, I’ll get with my team and work out the details of my leave from guest relations. Then I’ll get on the phone with my travel agent and book a private jet to—
Where?
As far away as I can get, I guess. Thailand? South Africa? Madrid?
All I know is my broken heart ain’t gonna heal if I’m anywhere near this place.