Epilogue

Three Weeks Later

From his vantage point by the pool table, Trace glanced around the Goose. Spring had officially sprung a couple weeks ago, but April first still found Captivity’s favorite watering hole mostly populated with locals. Conversation flowed around him in a pleasantly indecipherable hum. The scent of grilled burgers and spruce from a new small-batch beer Ford had begun brewing as an experiment filled in the air with a comfortable warmth.

Ford manned the bar, as usual, serving up beers while chatting with Rose, Lilah, and Jorg. The sight of Rose and Lilah sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing, put some tension in his shoulders, but he rolled them and let it fall away. Lilah would pull the pin on that grenade when she felt ready, and he and the rest of Captivity would do what they could to help patch things up. Rose wouldn’t hold onto hurt, disappointment, and betrayal forever. Once her grandchild arrived, she’d melt like a glacier in August. He believed that.

Bridget sat on the other side of Jorg, face animated in profile, hands climbing and diving as she relived some recent feat of aeronautics with Wing. Though she looked as carefree as ever, he had to admit she’d stepped up over these last few weeks in terms of managing more of the airfield operations. A woman of her word, his sister. Wing snuck a glance at her tits, displayed more prominently than any self-respecting brother would like in a snug, white, long-sleeved T-shirt, but he let the knee-jerk protective instinct go. Bridge could take care of herself. It was Wing he ought to protect.

Mad would be along soon enough, he figured, and could do the honors. The guy seemed reasonably content serving as one of Bridge’s casual playthings. This evening he’d volunteered to hold things down at the airfield for the scheduled arrival of some hotshot in his custom private plane. The guy wanted to hanger his expensive toy at their facility for an open-ended span of time, which amounted to a nice chunk of change for doing next to nothing. Mad’s show of initiative had less to do with ambition and more to do with wanting to get up-close-and-personal with the toy. Trace could admit to some interest in checking it out as well, but he didn’t have to be first in line. Tonight, he had other priorities.

Annie Watkins and her husband, Ben, shared a window table with Lenna and Tom. Across from them, Hoop and Carl occupied a two-top. How many years of holy matrimony between the couples in those six chairs? He took their relaxed, smiling faces as an endorsement.

His attention turned to an empty stool on the other side of Rose at the bar. A large water—no ice, a quarter-wedge of lemon—sat before it, perfectly centered on a small, square cocktail coaster. A leather handbag the size of a suitcase hung from the back of the seat. Technically, there was no sign that declared, “This seat is reserved for a high-maintenance city slicker,” but Trace read all the clues perfectly.

Ford caught his eye, pointed to the hallway near the front of the bar that led to the restrooms, and held his hand up to his ear in the universal “phone call” gesture. Trace nodded. Ford continued their nonverbal conversation with a silent question in the form of a raised brow. Low-grade nerves set in, but he gave the man a smaller, more discreet nod, then took the vacant stool beside the one Izzy had claimed.

Seconds later she emerged from the hallway, sliding her phone into the back pocket of curve-hugging jeans that probably bore a fancy label. Ditto for the snuggly V-neck sweater she wore in the exact milk chocolate shade of her eyes. Long, loose waves swayed away from her face as she raised her head and looked in his direction. She stopped, batted those long lashes, and then the world’s most kissable lips broke into a slow, sexy smile.

The buzz in the room faded away. The low-grade nerves subsided. Everything inside him shifted toward her, like metal shavings toward a magnet, while he watched her cross to him. Maybe he had a magnet inside him, too, because her attention never waived from him despite all the distractions around the room. When she drew near enough, he reached out, snagged her around the waist, and hauled her close. “Still wheeling and dealing?” He growled the question into her ear, just to inhale her perfume. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you resign from that job?”

She laughed and eased back to look up at him. Her palm tested the stubble along his jaw. Three days’ worth of growth made things itchy as hell, but well worth the discomfort. Izzy had a little kink for the beard, and he had a big kink for her, so, win-win. “I was talking with my parents, actually. They say hi. They’re very excited about the trip.”

“Late April works for them?”

“Yep.” Her smile softened with affection. “They’re so funny. They want to see Captivity. They want to go to Glacier Bay. They want to take a cruise. Oh, they’re kind of interested in meeting you, too.”

“That’s mutual,” he assured her. “Did you invite them to stay at the house while they’re here?”

“I didn’t, yet.” Her cheeks went pink. “I know I’m a grown woman, and they know it too, but they’re semi-traditional when it comes to relationships. I don’t want to make things weird.”

“You mean weird like us sleeping in different rooms while they’re visiting?”

She pointed an index finger at him. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, Izzy, it turns out I’m semi-traditional, too. And I am feeling a bit weird the way things currently sit.”

“You are? Really?” Her eyes went narrow and skeptical. “You didn’t seem at all conflicted last night when we were—”

“Be that as it may”—he reached into his pocket and closed his fist around the item he’d retrieved—“I think it would be best, all around, if you”—he opened his fist to reveal the platinum and diamond ring glittering on his palm—“agree to marry me.”

Her eyes went wide, then lifted to his. Her hand came up to hover by his. “Oh my God,” she whispered. Vaguely, he realized all conversations around them stopped. The bar had grown silent. Everyone watched and waited.

“Is that a yes?”

Before she could answer, Rose muttered, “Hold on,” reached past Izzy, and picked up the ring. She gave it a one-eyed inspection, then swiveled around and dragged the diamond along the rim of her pint glass. She followed up by rubbing her thumb along the same path. Finally, she nodded, and placed the ring back in his palm. “It’s good. She says yes.”

Izzy laughed.

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and counted to ten. “Hey, thanks Rose,” he said, not really caring if his voice dripped sarcasm, “but I’d just as soon hear it from the woman I actually proposed to.”

Pinching the ring between his thumb and forefinger, he held it out to her. “It’s a French-set halo diamond band, blah, blah, blah. Danny has the specifics if anyone needs them.” He sent Rose a pointed look, before switching his attention back to Izzy. “He texted me about a billion links to different options. Apparently, he’s given your engagement ring a lot of thought. He also volunteers to be your man of honor. All you have to do, Izzy, is say yes.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and held out her hand. He took it and slipped the ring onto her finger. “Yes,” she said again, and blinked up at him with watery eyes. She curled her free hand around his neck.

He swiped at a tear with his thumb, then leaned close and murmured in her ear. “Don’t cry, baby. It’s a diamond, not an orgasm.”

That earned him a choked laugh. “I can’t help it. I cry when I’m happy.”

“Well then, Izzy, I’m going to spend the rest of my life making you cry.” With that promise hanging in the air between them, he captured her lips for a kiss.

The room erupted in cheers and applause. A cork popped, and seconds later Ford put two flutes of champagne on the bar in front of them. Toasts were made, hugs and back slaps exchanged, questions asked—first and foremost, regarding a wedding date.

“I know it’s kind of a short timeline”—he looked at Izzy—“but I thought maybe you’d like to have the ceremony in Captivity while your parents are here?”

She nodded, beaming. “I’d love that. They’d love that.”

Bridget wedged between them, gave him a bone-crushing hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations.” Turning, she gave Izzy the same treatment. “I’ll settle for bridesmaid, since it sounds like this Danny guy has man of honor locked, but just so we’re clear, I draw the line at seafoam green taffeta.”

“Understood,” Izzy said solemnly, “but obviously I’m going to have to make the bridesmaids dresses extra ugly if you and Lilah agree to stand with me.”

“Ugly’s fine. Just no seafoam.”

Lilah came over for hugs as well. Then they talked dresses while Trace watched Mad step into the bar, followed by a GQ-looking guy with short, disheveled blond hair, sharp eyes, and a climber’s build. The man behind the custom private jet, Trace surmised.

The stranger glanced around the bar, clearly searching for something, until his eyes snagged on Bridget. Then his expression turned to one Trace couldn’t readily identify, except maybe…longing? Not the typical lust-from-across-a-bar look Bridget routinely inspired, but something deeper. More familiar. Laced with what looked like a possessive streak that, frankly, raised his big brother hackles.

Trace stood as the man approached. He caught Trace watching, smiled, and raised a finger to his lips. Okay, fine. What could the guy pull in a room full of people? Bridget, unaware, faced the bar and continued talking with Lilah and Izzy while Ford topped off their flutes. The man stepped close to Bridget, reached around to cover her eyes, and leaned close. “Hey, Bridge. Guess who?”

His sister froze. From his position he watched her lips part on a quick inhale, then firm into a disciplined line, and then, very deliberately, lift into a tight smile. She shook him off, turned, and stared at her surprise visitor with haughty calm. “Little Archie Ellison, as I live and breathe.”

There was nothing little about Archer Ellison, and everything about him from his solid stance to the confident glint in his eyes said he knew it, but he let the dismissive greeting pass without comment. “Hello, Bridget Shanahan. You’re beautiful. More beautiful than ever.”

“Drink it in while you can, ’cause I’m on my way out.” She shot a glance at Trace. “I’m off to do the thing.”

“Right.” He nodded. “The thing. Take care.”

“Always.” She winked, then pivoted, braced the toe of a work boot on the brass rail that ran along the bottom of the bar, leaned across the smooth, wood expanse, and sank her hands into Ford’s hair. “Later,” she murmured and fused her lips to his.

Ford hadn’t earned a badass retired military rep for not having a clue. He cupped a hand under Bridge’s jaw and held her there while he gave as good as he got.

It went on. And on. Rose muttered something in Tlingit that Trace translated as, “What kind of fuckery is this?”

After long, breathless minutes of very realistic, carnal tongue tangling of the sort a brother should not have to witness, they slowly parted. Smiling her wide, almost feral smile, Bridget dropped back down to the floor, turned, and sauntered out of the bar.

Every eye in the place, including those belonging to Archer Ellison the Third, swung to Ford. He grinned like a self-satisfied bastard, lined up several small glasses along the bar, and grabbed a bottle of tequila.

“Who wants shots?”

Trace gathered Izzy into his arms and drew her close as the crowd surged to the bar. “Okay skipping the shots?”

“Trace, do you know who that is?”

“Yep.”

“Things are about to get very interesting around here.”

“Yep.” He snuck his hands under the hem of her sweater. “Right now, though, I’m more interested in what you’ve got on under this outfit.”

“That’s the sort of thing I only reveal during a private party.”

“I know just the place. Let’s do our best to sneak out of here and head there.”

“Home?”

He nodded and pulled her in for a fast kiss. “Home.”

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