Page 107 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

“Here,” I say, shoving my drink at him, “I don’t think the witch’s brew agrees with me.”

He accepts it, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Really? I think it’s actually kind of good, like extra rich wine.”

“I think I’ll just stick with some club soda,” I say with a shrug.

“I’ll get some for you, if you’re sure you’re okay.”

I nod. “I’m fine,” I say honestly. The nausea passed as quickly as it arrived. “I’m going to try to find a table.”

“I’ll find you there,” Xander promises, then sweeps away.

I battle through the throng of costumed people until, miracle of miracles, I find a spare table. Throwing myself onto one of the tall stools, I claim it.

No sooner than I’ve gotten comfortable, a hand lands on my shoulder. I turn, thinking it’s Xander with the club soda, but it’s Mom, Dad close behind. They’re not dressed up, but they’re wearing matching Halloween sweaters, which is so freaking cute I could die.

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaim, jumping up and throwing my arms around both my parents at once. “Hi!” It’s not the first time I’ve seen them since coming to Deadwood, but after not seeing them for so long, each meeting feels like a miracle.

“How’re you settling in over at the cemetery?” Dad asks, eyes flashing behind his glasses. I know he’s happy for me, but he’s also sad for himself that his daughter won’t be back under his roof.

“Really great,” I say. I catch a glimpse of Xander over his shoulder and wave my man over. “Here he comes, you can meet him.”

My heart’s in my throat, my stomach is clenched in a way that has nothing to do with the witch’s brew, but I’m so excited — the man who stole my heart is about to meet the people who gave me life. It feels so perfect.

As he gets closer, I realize that Xander’s not alone — there are an older woman and a guy around his age trailing behind him.

Xander comes straight to my side, pressing the cold glass of club soda into my hand. I gulp it gratefully, leaning into him. I catch Mom and Dad exchanging a glance, but then Xander sweeps a free hand toward the pair he arrived with.

“Autumn,” he says, and I don’t miss the way his voice catches just slightly with nerves, “meet my mother and my brother.” His gaze goes to my parents. “And these must be your folks.”

Our table is suddenly a tangle of shaking hands and hugs and introductions and I’m smiling so wide that my face hurts. I was worried, but here we are, all settling in, chatting as best we’re able through the din.

Just like a family.

I watch Andrew crack some joke that makes my mom dissolve into gales of laughter while Dad and Xander’s mom discuss something that involves a lot of serious nodding and frowning, and it’s so damn beautiful.

Leaning my weight into Xander, I look up at him, his arm instinctively wrapping around me. With a crooked finger I beckon him close and he lowers his head. Tipping my lips up to his ear, I say, “I love you.”

Now his mouth is at my ear. “I love you,” he says, “so damn much. I’m the luckiest man alive.”

A month ago, I would’ve doubted any man who spoke such a thing to me. But with Xander, I believe every syllable, so grateful that New York’s dead-end brought me straight into the safety of his arms.

Epilogue

Autumn

One Year Later

Igo over Xander’s Obi-Wan Kenobi costume one last time, adjusting how his cape drapes over his shoulders. Aiming a critical gaze at our reflection in the master bathroom’s mirror, I try to think of what’s not quite right. He grew his beard out for this costume, and we sprayed it silver with temporary hair dye. I sewed the entire costume myself, without a pattern, and it looks professionally done. But still, it’s missing something.

“It looks good, hon,” he says gently, “and so do you.”

“I look massive,” I scowl.

He rubs his hands down my upper arms. “You’re supposed to. You’re the Death Star.”

I arch a single brow at my husband. “Mybellyis the Death Star.”

Which is true. I’m clad entirely in black, except for where I painted a Death Star over the tummy area of the top last week. It looks pretty awesome if I do say so myself.

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