Page 132 of Under Southern Stars
I kiss her again, slower this time. Lingering. Intentional.
“That felt like…more than sex,” she whispers.
“It was,” I say. “It was you and me, choosing each other again.”
“I never thought I’d have this again,” Sophia says finally, her voice soft in the darkness. “You. Us.”
I tighten my arms around her. “I thought I’d lost you forever when you saw the estate.”
“It wasn’t the money that hurt, Jack.” She lifts herself onto one elbow to look down at me. “It was feeling like I didn’t know who you really were. That everything we’d shared might have been based on a fiction.”
“Nothing between us was ever false,” I promise. “The man who brought you coffee, who taught Madison to make pasta, who fell in love with you at the first radio call—that was always me. The real me.”
She smiles, tracing the line of my jaw with her fingertips. “I know that now.”
Sophia’s eyes suddenly widen. “Madison! I completely forgot—”
“I’m sure my sisters have it under control,” I reassure her, but she is already reaching for her phone on the nightstand.
“I should at least let them know I’m not coming back to the guest house tonight.” She sends a quick text, then relaxes back against me. “Emma replied immediately. Apparently Madison is having the time of her life learning rugby tackles. Emma says not to worry, they’ve got it covered.”
“Told you,” I say, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Those three have been conspiring since the moment you arrived.”
Sophia slips from the bed, the moonlight bathing her naked form in silver as she walks to the wide window overlooking the vineyard and Lake Dunstan beyond. The full moon hangs impossibly large in the southern sky, casting ripples of light across the water.
“It’s so different,” she murmurs, her silhouette breathtaking against the night sky. “The moon, the stars. Everything’s upside down here.”
I watch her, entranced by the simple beauty of this moment—Sophia in my cottage, in my life, standing unguarded and free.
She turns slightly, catching sight of herself in the antique mirror that hangs beside the window—and me behind her, still in bed, watching her with undisguised adoration.
“You’re not even looking at the view,” she says, a smile in her voice.
I rise, moving to stand behind her, my arms encircling her waist, my chin resting on her shoulder. “I have the better view.”
“Charmer,” she whispers, leaning back against me.
In the mirror, our bodies align perfectly—her head nestled in the crook of my neck, my arms wrapped around her waist, her hands resting over mine. I hold her gaze in the reflection.
“You fit,” I say softly.
“What?”
“You fit.” I gesture toward our reflection. “Look. Look in the mirror. You fit right here, perfectly.”
Her eyes follow mine to the mirror, taking in the way our naked bodies are intertwined—her head fitting perfectly into the space between my shoulder and chin, our bodies aligned like pieces of a puzzle.
“This is where you belong,” I murmur against her ear. “This is where I belong. To you.”
Tears glisten in her eyes, catching the moonlight. “To each other,” she corrects softly.
A comfortable silence falls between us, the kind that only exists between people who have moved beyond the need for constant reassurance. Outside, an owl calls, its voice carrying through the night.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her eventually. “About taking your name. About giving up all of this if that’s what it took.”
“I would never ask you to give up your family, your heritage.” She kisses me softly. “But I appreciate the offer. It showed me how much you were willing to sacrifice.”
“Jackson Charles Mitchell,” I test the sound of it. “Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”
