Page 104 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

“We’re us,” he agrees. “And that’s enough.” He kisses my temple. “More than enough.”

Opening day hits like a wave. A line forms before noon. People post photos. Reviews trickle in. The crowd grows. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I catch Chase leaning against the counter, watching me scribble orders, his eyes soft and full and entirely mine.

“What?” I ask breathlessly.

He grins. “I like watching you work.”

I roll my eyes. “Pervert.”

He winks. “Only for you.”

By sundown, we’re totally sold out. We collapse against the truck, sweaty, exhausted, and exhilarated.

“Chase, you did it,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “We did it.”

I tuck my face into his neck, breathing him in. My heart pounds with something wild, electric, and steady all at once.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he murmurs.

“There was never a chance I wouldn’t,” I say softly.

He kisses me again, slow and sure. “Forever, Rox.”

I smile against his lips. “Forever.”

The city lights blink to life around us, as laughter and music drift across the expo grounds. It comes to me.

Forever isn’t a destination.

It’s a choice.

Every day.

Every messy, beautiful, ordinary day.

And I’ll keep choosing him.

Always.

EPILOGUE

THREE YEARS AND NEW DREAMS

ROXY

* * *

If someone had told me four years ago that my life would look like this—a pink tricycle tipped over next to a food truck with my face on it, a booming business that is one of the top event planning companies in both Austin and Dallas, a glitter slime experiment gone wrong coating half the patio, and a French bulldog wearing a tutu while dragging a half-eaten quesadilla across the yard—I would’ve laughed so hard I cried.

And yet, here we are.

It’s perfect.

I lean against the truck, looking through the window, sipping my margarita, watching Chase fry tortillas and assemble tacos while wearing a tiny human, we created together, strapped to his chest in a carrier that says “Daddy’s Sous Chef.” Our daughter, Stella, babbles happily, gumming a piece of dough between her perfect little lips.

“Babe,” I call. “She’s got a tortilla in her mouth again.”

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