Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 20660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 103(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 103(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
She smiles, the tension in her shoulders fading. “That sounds perfect.”
I brush a strand of hair from her forehead and kiss her tenderly. “From now on it’s just these mountains, our family, campfires and fishing trips and roasting marshmallows over a campfire.”
She laughs, light and free. “Are you a s’mores kinda guy?”
“Only when we’re making them for our kids.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb.
Her eyes shine. “You’re crazy and I love you so much.”
I shake my head against her hair, chuckling softly. “Just wait, baby. I’ve got big plans for us.”
Holding her here, wrapped in this quiet afterglow, I feel invincible.
Together, we’re fireproof.
Second Epilogue
Holly–one year later
The smell of cedar and clean sawdust hits me the second I step through the front door.
Our door.
I drop the box of shipping labels on the entryway table and kick off my boots, toes already curling against the smooth wood floors Jack laid with his own hands.
It’s been a year since the wedding. Since we danced under pine trees and stars and vowed to carve out a life with our bare hands. And somehow, we actually did it.
This place? It’s not just a home. It’s proof.
Proof that broken things can be rebuilt.
That grumpy mountain men can love like wildfires.
That I—Holly freaking Dawson—can survive chaos, climb out of fear, and build something real.
The house is quiet, but I know he’s here. The big brute never strays far. My studio’s just off the main room, French doors flung open, sunlight streaking over finished oak, copper tools, and a workbench Jack surprised me with on our anniversary.
He carved our initials into the leg.
And under that, a tiny heart. Jagged. Imperfect. Us.
My latest order from "Carved for Keeps" sits neatly wrapped, ready to ship. I press a hand to the box. Mountain-shaped earrings. A ring molded from a pine branch. A cuff that echoes the lines of Devil’s Peak.
My work used to be about survival.
Now, it’s about celebration.
I turn, and he’s there—backlit in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, T-shirt stretched across his chest, jaw shadowed with stubble and those eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing worth watching.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “You’re mine. Why wouldn’t I?”
God. That voice still wrecks me.
I saunter forward, cocking a brow. “You gonna help me pack these orders or just lean like a lumberjack centerfold?”
He steps forward. “Thought about bending you over the table first.”
Heat zips up my spine. “Not very professional of you, Mr. Rivers.”
He shrugs. “Good thing I never claimed to be.”
His hand grazes my hip. I grab his wrist, pulse jumping.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you’re not running.”
I meet his gaze. Steady. Certain.
“No. I’m home.”
His fingers flex, dragging me closer. "You still making jewelry inspired by my abs?"
I laugh, breathless. "I mean... people seem to like it."
He growls, low and teasing, and kisses me like he’s got nowhere else to be. Like the only thing that matters is this—me in his arms, the house humming around us, our life carved from sweat, stubbornness, and second chances.
The moon is high above Devil’s Peak, and the air smells like pine, woodsmoke, and the sweet dampness of spring settling into summer. Jack’s just finished rinsing the dinner plates, sleeves rolled, forearms glistening, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder like he’s always belonged in this life.
Our life.
I’m barefoot on the porch, heart pounding under my favorite dress. The fabric clings to my curves, and in my hands is a tiny box wrapped in ridiculous pink heart paper.
Jack steps outside, catching sight of me like he always does—like I’m a storm he doesn’t mind getting caught in.
His mouth quirks. “That for me?”
I grin. “Might be.”
He takes the box, eyeing it like it might bite. “You know I don’t usually like surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
He peels the paper slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the suspense just to tease me. When he lifts the lid and sees what’s inside, he stills.
Then looks up at me, eyes blazing.
“You’re serious?”
I nod. “We’re having a baby.”
He exhales, slow and shaky, like his world just tilted.
“I get to do it again?” he whispers. “I get to raise one from the start?”
My eyes sting. I step into his arms.
He wraps me up tight, burying his face in my neck. “I can’t believe this,” he murmurs. “I can’t believe I ever thought I’d live my whole damn life alone on this mountain.”
I press a kiss to his jaw. “You’ll never be alone again.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Really look. “Damn right I won’t.”
Then he grabs my hand and walks me down into the tall grass, where the dew clings to our ankles and the stars burn fierce overhead.
“Jack,” I laugh. “You’re going to ruin my dress.”
“I’ll buy you a hundred more.”
Then he lays me down, careful and reverent, lips finding mine like a vow. His hands stroke over me, slow and sure, and when he slips my dress up, he takes his time worshipping every inch of me—like I’m his and only his.