Page 103 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

“Just a muse,” he says. “A story that painted itself.”

He doesn’t have to say more.

I’m here, leaning against the back wall, sipping lemonade and pretending not to watch him.

He still takes my breath away. Even in a paint-flecked white shirt and dark jeans, he’s more captivating than anything on the walls.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, suddenly at my side.

“Am not,” I lie, cheeks flushing.

He leans in and kisses my temple. “You’re in every frame, you know.”

“Not every one,” I say, pointing to a still life near the bar. “That’s just fruit.”

“I was thinking of you when I painted that too.” He grins.

I roll my eyes.

As sunset spills amber light across the gallery, the crowd thins. Cole slides his hand into mine, fingers lacing like he never plans to let go.

“Ready to leave them wondering?” he asks.

“Always.”

We step outside into the breeze, the ocean rising to meet us.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not running from anything.

I’m walking toward something that’s ours.

Something lasting.

Something true.

EPILOGUE 2

EMILY

It took countless late nights, more tears than I’d like to admit, and hours of brutal rewrites—but my first official song collection is finally finished.

And today… it’s published.

Morning light spills through our kitchen windows, warm and golden. I’m barefoot on the tile floor, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, refreshing the link again and again just to make sure it’s real.

It is.

My name—Emily O’Hara—is right there beneath the title in bold serif font. I scroll slowly, heart pounding, until I reach the cover.

It stops me cold.

It’s a painting Cole did years ago—me on a hotel balcony, hair wild in the wind, notebook clutched to my chest, the Gulf of Mexico behind me like a promise. He’s softened it into dusky purples and twilight blues. Around the edges, faint music notes swirl like smoke.

I didn’t even know he remembered that moment.

Tears prick my eyes. I press a hand to my mouth.

Behind me, I hear his footsteps. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close.

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