Page 18 of Her Rugged Lumberjack

How did I get so lucky?

And how the hell did I live without this angel for forty-five years?

“There’s one more thing,” I say. “I’m firing you.”

Margot’s eyebrows shoot up. “Pardon?”

“You can still work on the Christmas tree farm whenever you want,” I tell her. “I love having you here. But I have a different job for you.”

“What is it?”

“Your job is to finish your book.” I take her face in my hands. “It’s your dream, Margot. This is your chance to make it come true.”

Her eyes sparkle like sapphires as my words sink in, but then her smile falters slightly. “What about money? If I quit Cherry Grocery and the farm, I won’t have any source of income. My thriller might never make a dime.”

“I have enough money for both of us, sugar. My dad left me and Nolan a chunky inheritance, and the farm is doing better than I could have hoped. You don’t need to worry, okay? I will always take care of you.”

Margot looks stunned as she takes in everything I’ve said. Then she raises on her tiptoes and kisses me hard on the mouth. When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Declan. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

My sweet girl.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me too, sugar.” I scoop her into my arms, carrying her bridal-style out of the backroom. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Home sounds wonderful.”

She gives me a dazzling smile, her pretty face lit up by the moonlight as we leave the barn behind. Snow floats down from the sky, but despite the cold, I’ve never felt warmer as I carry the woman I love through rows of Christmas trees, toward our waiting cabin.

EPILOGUE

MARGOT

I typethe last words of Chapter 32 and read them over with a nod of satisfaction. Only ten more chapters to go before my sequel will be ready for editing. When I published my debut thriller novel, The Final Betrayal, I never expected to turn it into a series, but readers fell in love with the main character, a spunky forensic psychologist named Dr. Evelyn Cross. Now I have five more books planned with her as the lead. The Final Betrayal sold better than I ever could have hoped. Now I get to craft stories full of mystery and intrigue for a living, and I’m loving every second of my new career.

As I save my changes and close the document, my phone lights up from its place on my desk, and my mom’s name flashes on the screen. I accept the call with a smile, leaning back in my chair.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, honey. How’s the book going?”

“It’s getting there. Slowly but surely. How are you?”

“Great! Really great.”

The divorce was finalized a while back, and my parents are so much happier for it. They’re not exactly best friends, but they’re civil when they see each other, and the blazing arguments are athing of the past. Mom is treating it like a fresh start. She’s been doing a lot of solo traveling, letting her adventurous side run wild across the globe, from Morocco to Mongolia.

“I’m calling to invite you to dinner next week,” she says, a note of nervousness in her voice. “Thing is, honey, I met somebody.”

My heart flutters. “You did?”

“His name’s Richard. He’s an antique dealer.” There’s a pause before she adds, “Would you like to meet him?”

“Of course I would!” I grin at my phone. “Mom, this is amazing! I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, baby. He’s a wonderful man. I think you’ll like him.”

“I’m sure I will. When can I meet him?”

Mom suggests a restaurant and we agree on a reservation for next week.

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