Epilogue

Kieran

363 days later

T he forecast called for rain when I checked it last night, but the skies over Galway are a stunning cobalt. I’m not the least bit surprised. In fact, I wouldn’t blink if a fairy popped out of a tree and said my gran had strong-armed a god into polishing the sky with his beard.

In the last year, I’ve given up on pretending I don’t believe in magic—at least in private.

I do have a reputation as a scientific genius to maintain.

Despite the clear sky, the air is glacial. Talia is bundled up appropriately while I shiver in a peacoat. My dad’s fault. When we left his house this morning, he gave Talia a kiss on the cheek and Mam’s favorite wool hat and scarf. To me, he gave a ration of shit for allowing California to thin my Irish blood.

I’m paying the full price for my pride now.

Even our three shadows are in insulated jackets, heavy boots, and beanies. Probably having a nice big laugh at my expense, the fuckers.

“I don’t remember it being this beautiful,” says Talia with hushed awe. Her sharp gaze roams over the mortuary chapel, the sea of gray headstones, and lingers on stretches of grass that are an almost surreal bright green.

I squeeze her hand. “Might have something to do with the fact it was dusk, spitting rain, and you were plastered.”

She smiles, throwing me a quick glance. A gust of wind sneaks under my collar. I flip it up, compressing my head like a turtle. I can’t feel my fucking ears.

“Here, take this.” Talia tugs me to a stop and unwraps her scarf.

“Nah, I’m good.”

She rolls her eyes and loops the scarf around my neck, twisting it under my chin. “Don’t be a brat.”

I grin. “But you like it when I’m a brat.”

Her cheeks, already rosy in the cold, flush darker. Instead of rising to the bait, though, she tugs my hand. “Come on, we’ll walk faster. It’s this way, right?”

Picking up our pace does help. Also helpful—thinking about waking up two days from now in tropical heat, as well as what I have planned for the day after that. And the little box stored in the bottom of my luggage.

By the time we reach Gran, I’m almost thawed. We come to a stop a few feet from the headstone we slumped against as teenagers. As strangers.

“What does it say?” she asks, her gaze on the Gaelic inscription on the headstone.

My throat tightens, my voice emerging hoarse. “It’s a line from a poem, On Raglan Road by Patrick Kavanagh. ‘And I said,/ Let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.’”

Talia wraps her arm through mine. “That’s lovely.”

Reading the words again, a smile twitches my lips. “A few months before she died, she showed me the poem and told me she wanted the line for her epitaph. Even highlighted and underlined it and swore to haunt me if I let Dad put a generic or religious quote on her headstone.” I shake my head ruefully. “I gave her shit because the poem itself is pretty depressing, about a failed relationship. But Gran said that’s the whole point—finding light in the dark. We only appreciate the dawn because of the night that precedes it, and we only survive the night because of the moon and stars.”

Talia’s arm slips from mine. My thoughts on Gran, I don’t notice she’s not beside me until she says my name. I turn on my heel.

And freeze.

She kneels before me, looking up at me with hopeful eyes and a soft smile. Rosy cheeks and a red nose. My mam’s hat askew on her head. A silver ring pinched between her fingers.

“I love you, Kieran. Will you marry me?”

I’m horrified.

Humbled to my core.

Ecstatic beyond belief.

From ten feet away, Sven rumbles, “Close your mouth, jackass.”

Dylan and Gabe give me shooing gestures.

One stumbling step brings me to her. My weak knees deposit me on the ground. I grab her face and kiss her cold lips, sucking on her smile.

“Yes, Birdie. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Grinning, she grabs my hand and shoves the band on my ring finger. It fits perfectly.

Lifting my gaze to her face, I attempt a glare. “Did these assholes ruin my surprise?”

She blinks. “What surprise?”

“Idiot,” hisses Gabe.

Talia glances at the men, then fills the crisp morning with her ringing laughter. Shaking her head, she says matter-of-factly, “They haven’t said anything, but I figured you had something planned for two days from now. You’re predictable like that. This was simple payback. You hijacked my romantic gesture last year, so I decided to hijack yours.”

My laughter startles a flock of blackbirds from a nearby bush. Sven bats them away from his head, cursing, while Dylan and Gabe observe his dramatics with sadistic grins.

I haul Talia into my arms. “Tá grá agam duit, Talia. ”

“I love you, too,” she whispers, rubbing her nose against mine, which is sadly too numb to feel a thing.

2 days later

Dawn light flows like a sparkling river of ichor across the bedroom and Talia’s naked body, turning her skin burnished gold. I kept her up most of the night and should let her sleep, but I can’t fucking wait anymore.

Crawling onto the bed, I lie on my side facing her. She’s on her stomach, head turned away. Her left hand is conveniently accessible, elegant fingers loosely curled on the ivory sheets. They twitch when I slip the ring on. I admire the custom, emerald cut black diamond as it glitters in the dawn.

Eventually she stirs, twisting toward me, eyelashes fluttering and parting. She smiles sleepily, then catches sight of the ring. Her eyes widen, jaw dropping as she lurches onto her elbows.

I trail a finger down her bare arm, delighting in the swift rise of goose bumps despite the sultry air.

“Surprise.”

She sputters. “You didn’t even ask me!”

I shrug. “I figured it was a done deal since you locked me down already. I told Sven and Dylan to enjoy the sunset yacht cruise on our behalf. You won’t mind skipping my flowery speech, right? ”

Her outrage is immediate and incandescent. “You what ? No! I’ve been waiting a year for this!”

Unable to hold it in a second longer, I grin. “I’m kidding, sweetheart. Not about the ring but about the yacht. You still have to listen to my longwinded proposal. The boys have a bet going as to whether I’ll make you cry.”

Irritation drains from her eyes. Her lips dance and finally, she laughs. “Not so predictable after all, Mr. Hayes.”

She yawns, stretching, all glorious skin and tangled dark hair. My mouth waters. I sneak my fingers toward the nearest rosy nipple, but she bats my hand away.

“In a minute, future husband. Look under your pillow first.”

Frowning, I lift the pillow off the bed. A curled piece of paper pinwheels to the mattress. “What’s this?” I ask, snatching and unrolling it.

I stare unblinking at what’s revealed.

Talia sits up. “Remember how I told you my period was late, and that it was probably due to all the stress from my speaking schedule and the book release coming up?”

I nod, still staring at the tiny white bean in a sea of murky black.

A star in the night.

A light in the dark.

Talia grabs my arm. “Say something.”

“We’re having a baby?”

I don’t recognize my own voice .

“Yes,” she says crisply, “but I’m suddenly more concerned you’re having a stroke.”

“A baby,” I whisper. “Our baby.”

I finally look up. When she sees my awe and joy, tears fill her eyes. Her smile is brighter than the dawn.

Pulling her into my arms, I kiss every inch of her face until she’s laughing and I’m laughing.

We cry, too.

Then we celebrate so enthusiastically the bed breaks. The thunderous crack brings a panicked Sven running into our bungalow with a knife in his hand. He skids to a stop at the sight of me, a brand-new expression on his face: unmitigated shock.

I wiggle my fingers in the restraints securing my wrists to the sagging headboard. “A little help, buddy?”

A bell-like giggle sounds from somewhere under a mountain of sheets and pillows.

Sven does an about-face and marches out the door.