Page 56 of Dirty Delivery

His other hand traces slow, deliberate patterns along my back, as though he’s memorizing the feel of me, committing it to memory. The silence between us isn’t empty. It’s full of warmth and unspoken promises, a calm that settles deep in my soul. I close my eyes and let the steady rhythm of his breathing and heartbeat surround me, anchoring me in this moment, in him.

I don’t just feel safe—I feelseen. Whole. Loved in a way that runs deeper than words.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you again,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet promise as he presses a kiss to my forehead.

But his words are more than that—they’re a vow. A declaration etched into my very being, spoken with the kind of conviction that makes the shadows of my past feel smaller, less powerful. I let myself believe in the possibility of a future untouched by fear, a life where the darkness doesn’t define me.

In his arms, I’m not just protected—I’m free. Free to dream, free to hope, and free to love without hesitation. His warmth surrounds me, his touch a silent promise that no matter how broken I feel, he’ll be there to piece me back together. With everybreath I take, I let go of another fragment of fear, replacing it with the trust I’ve found in him.

And as I close my eyes, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my cheek, I know one thing with absolute certainty: Rylan isn’t just my safe haven

He’s my home.

Epilogue

Savannah

One Year Later

Life? Oh, it’s awild ridethese days—like I blinked and the universe decided to turn my life from "average sitcom" to "award-winning rom-com." In the past year, I’ve somehow managed to write and publishtwobooks (yes, I’m still pinching myself) and both landed on the New York Times Best Seller List. One of them—a contemporary romance inspired by my love story with Rylan—has people everywhere swooning. No big deal or anything, right?

But it hasn’t all been smooth sailing. Healing from the trauma and chaos of the past has been its own kind of journey. Therapyhas become a lifeline, helping me untangle the mess in my head and learn to breathe through the anxiety that creeps in at the worst times. I’ve taken up journaling, pouring out the thoughts I can’t always say aloud, and even on my darkest days, I remind myself of the progress I’ve made. Some scars run deep, but I’m learning that they don’t define me. And through it all, Rylan has been my rock, steady and unwavering, reminding me that it’s okay to lean on him when the weight feels like too much. Slowly but surely, I’m finding my way back to myself.

To keep myself grounded (and to avoid full hermit mode), I spend a few nights a week working at Declan’s pub. It’s the perfect place to soak up the chaotic energy of Dublin nights and escape theoh-so-glamoroussolitude of writing. Plus, the pub gives me a front-row seat to humanity in all its glorious messiness—prime inspiration for book three, naturally.

Speaking of grounding, my bond with Sarah has become unshakable. Our wine nights?Iconic.They’re part therapy, part comedy show, and 100% the reason I haven’t lost my mind. When I finally told her everything—everything—that had happened, we cried until we looked like raccoons. It was the kind of cry that leaves you lighter and freer. Now, we laugh harder, hug tighter, and never let a wine bottle go unfinished.

Today, the house smells like cinnamon and warm apples, thanks to Noreen and her apple pie mission. We’re in the kitchen, teasing each other like sisters, while attempting to bake (read: she bakes, I provide questionable moral support). It’s the kind of moment I never thought I’d have again—a house filled with laughter, the air thick with joy, not dread.

The front door creaks open, and I hear Rylan’s voice, smooth as ever. “I’m home, mo stóirín.”

“In here!” I call, already grinning.

He steps into the kitchen, looking unfairly attractive with his sleeves rolled up and that cocky-yet-sweet smile that makes myknees weak. Rylan’s shifted from occasional “deliveries” with Declan to being my literary manager and self-proclaimed social media guru. (Yes, he knows my passwords. No, I don’t know if that’s smart or terrifying.)

“You still haven’t told me what that means,” I say, side-eyeing his pet name for me.

He smirks, closing the distance between us. “And after all this time, you still haven’t Googled it?”

“I wanted to hear it from you,” I say, tilting my head like a proper curious kitten.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, and I’m a goner. “It means ‘my darling’ in Irish,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of warmth. “It’s what my da used to call my ma. They were madly in love, and even as a kid, I knew that’s what I wanted one day.”

Cue my heart practically bursting out of my chest. I reach up, tracing the familiar lines of his face, and wonder for the millionth time how I got so lucky. Falling more in love with him every day feels impossible, yet here I am, doing just that.

Rylan

“Let’s go out to dinner tonight.” I lean casually against the counter, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. “I want to take you to La Belle Étoile.”

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “The place with the months-long waiting list? That La Belle Étoile?”

I grin and wink. “Let’s just say the owner owes me a favor.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re full of surprises, Rylan. What should I wear?”

“That red dress. You know which one. The one that makes me forget my own name.”

That evening, I pull on a dress shirt and slacks, feeling more like a knight heading into battle than a man going out to dinner.I’ve faced life-threatening situations—hell, I’ve stared death in the face more times than I can count—but nothing has ever made my palms sweat like this moment.

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