Page 82 of By the Book

“Yeah, sure,” Wes says, looking between them.

Fitzy watches them go, then turns to Poppy and asks, “Do you have time to talk?”

“Today?” she frowns. “Do you really have to bring me down during Fall Fest?”

“Yes dear, preferably today. But, before we go—Tripp, I am excited to say that I spoke with the county commissioner and the recall has completely stalled. You should receive the official word that it’s called off in the next few days. People are frantically asking if they can rescind their signatures.”

My heart stutters at the news, people truly are seeing Tripp as they should. I place my hands on his shoulders, a giddy smile stretching across my face. “No more recall, Sheriff Forester!”

The corner of his lip tilts up as his warm eyes lock onto me. “It does feel good,” he admits in a whisper, only loud enough for my ears.

“You deserve to be sheriff, there’s a reason Winston endorsed you instead of Chuck, his chief deputy,” Fitzy adds.

“Yeah, Chuck is murderous,” Wren points out. “But also, because you are so good at your job,” she adds quickly.

“Well, this has taken a fun turn,” Tripp mutters sarcastically. “But I think I’d like to celebrate over a caramel apple with my Sherlock.” Taking my hand, he nods to the mayor and guides me back into the festival crowd.

“You do deserve to be the sheriff,” I tell him as we cross by the pumpkin bowling and stop in line for the apples.

“It’s only your opinion that matters,” he reminds me. But I don’t miss the way his shoulders have relaxed, and his jaw loosens.

“Pops would be proud,” I add, leaning my head against Tripp. Looking around, I catch sight of Hayden watching Poppy and Fitzy walk towards town hall. I swear I see a smile on his face. Beside him, my brother chats with Stevie and Wren. Sighing contently, I think this might be the best Fall Fest to date.

Tripp wraps an arm around me, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Happy?”

Iamhappy, taking in the moment. But more importantly, I’m happy with who I am and what choices I’ve made for myself. I may have come home for my father, but staying was all for me. It took almost losing everything, to realize all I had. And I won’t forget again.

“More than you know,” I reply, settling into his embrace. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Epilogue

Ivy

Ten Months Later

The late August breeze catches my hair, the first hints of chill whipping across my neck. I can smell it in the air, fall is near. With a smile on my face, I sit on our back patio, overlooking the sea as the morning sun paints the sky in soft pastel hues.

My laptop before me, I type the wordsthe endas my eyes well with pride. I did it. I wrote a book. An actual, complete book. It was Tripp’s words nearly one year ago that helped the final puzzle piece I’d been twisting around, unable to fit, fall into place.

I had started slowly, typing out little ideas as they came to me throughout the day. And the more I did so, the more they solidified in my mind. Something about being able to put even the smallest snippets on a page made this dream feel possible. Real. And now the first draft of my first novel is fleshed out.

The sound of the door opening behind me could only mean one thing, Tripp is home. He had been gone overnight, personally escorting the transfer of Chuck to his long-termcorrectional institution. Before I can turn to face him, arms wrap around me from behind. His lips brush against my ear and I feel the resulting, delicious chill cascading down my spine.

“I got worried for a minute when I didn’t find you in our bed,” he murmurs. It didn’t take long for us to move in together, his place on the shore had felt like home after that very first night.

“I didn’t sleep well without you,” I admit, reaching up and hooking my hands onto his forearms across my chest.

“Are you writing?”

“I just finished. As in, finished the book.”

Motioning to the screen, I twist to look up at Tripp’s reaction. A slow smile stretches across his face as he sees that I reached the end. Tightening his grip around me, he scatters kisses across my face and down the side of my neck.

“I am so proud of you, my little Sherlock.”

The mystery of the Foxport vandal may have ended, but his nickname for me remains. And I hope it always will.

It only seemed fitting that when the time came to write, my story weaved together mystery, suspense, and love. Always love.

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