Page 152 of In Case You Didn't Know
“The best kind.” I set the phone aside and let my hand trace her cheek, my thumb brushing the soft curve like I’m committing it to memory. “Almost as good as this.”
Her gaze holds mine, steady and sure. “You look happy,” she says quietly, like she’s trying to put a name to something she’s never seen in me before.
“That’s because I am.” My voice feels different when I say it. Hell,Ifeel different. Lighter. Like a softer version of who I used to be. “You make me that way,” I murmur, leaning down to press my lips against her brow.
The lighthouse is quiet except for the faint hum of the sea through the open window. But everything else falls away.
She shifts, slow and deliberate, sliding over until she’s straddling my hips. My hands find her waist, instinctively tightening, pulling her closer.
“You know,” she says, her smile turning wicked, “we never did finish celebrating meeting my book deadline.”
I lift a brow. “You finished twice, as I recall,” I murmur, my voice dropping low, “But I’m not against celebrating all over again.”
Her laugh is low, full of promise. She leans in, brushing her mouth over mine once, twice, until my patience snaps and I kiss her the way I’ve been wanting to all damn day.
The world can wait. The family chat can wait.
Because this woman? She’s mine, and I’m determined to keep it that way.
So I circle my hands around her waist, and flip us over until she’s beneath me, her eyes wide with excitement, her lips parted with anticipation.
Yep, she’s definitely mine.
And I’m never letting her go.
epilogue
The following year…
FRANCIE
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be standing in a seaside bookstore with my name splashed across the covers of actual books, signing them with a pink Sharpie while my overprotective brothers hovered like secret service agents and my boyfriend whispered utterly inappropriate things in my ear between well-wishers…
Well, I would’ve laughed. Then probably tripped over something. And definitely spilled coffee down my front.
But here I am.
Books by the Seais exactly what a bookstore on Liberty Island should be. It’s tucked between the pier and the village green, with whitewashed clapboard siding, big ocean-facing windows, and the salty scent of the ocean drifting in every time the door opens. Fairy lights twist around the ceiling beams. Shelves made from reclaimed driftwood line the walls, packed with bestsellers and beach reads, plus a local authors display –or rather local author, because I’m the only one – that makes me blush every time I glance at it.
There's a reading nook in the back with two overstuffed armchairs and a faded Persian rug. A big hand-painted sign behind the counter reads,Books are magic, and so are you.
Sadie, the new owner, opened the shop only three months ago. Nobody really knows her history, or why she decided to open a bookstore here on Liberty. But she’s absolutely in her element, wearing a maxi dress covered in tiny books, tucking pencils behind both ears, and organizing themed displays with military strictness. She bustles around like a caffeinated book fairy, refilling the display table, chatting with customers, and sending up silent thank-yous to the book gods every time another ferry of readers arrives from the mainland.
“You’re single-handedly funding my caffeine habit,” she tells me under her breath, sliding another stack of my novels across the table.
“I aim to support small businesses,” I reply solemnly, adding a heart to my signature.
Outside, the line of readers curls down the sidewalk and out of view. Autumn, who’s taken on the role of unofficial publicist, content creator, and proud best friend, is filming the chaos for TikTok, cackling about views and engagement as she pans across the crowd.
From my spot behind the table, I see Mylene pacing on the sidewalk like a woman on a mission. She’s flatly refusing to enter because Eileen is here, standing smugly at the front of the line, a copy of my book clutched to her chest like it's a rare diamond.
Sadie ducks behind a nearby display like Mylene might breathe fire. “She’s convinced Eileen’s going to buy the last signed copy,” she whispers.
“I think we’re safe,” I murmur, eyeing the piles waiting to be signed.
“Francie!” Charlie’s voice cuts through the buzz, loud and cheerful and unmistakably him. He materializes at my side, sunglasses perched on his head like a crown, carrying a coffee in one hand and a chocolate croissant in the other. “Just wanted to say thank you. It’s not every day a man gets immortalized as the charming rogue in a romance novel.”
“You’re not in the book.”
