Page 199 of Always Meant for You
His selflessness undoes me. My chest tightens, and my tears fall. I press my hand against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart beneath my palm. “Thank you for knowing what I needed and for loving me through all of it.”
He tips up my chin. “I think the old Young sisters were onto something when it came to us,” he says softly, eyes searching mine. “Gemini and Capricorn. Fated from the start.”
“You believe in all that now?” I ask, drinking him in.
“Maybe a little. But here’s what I know for sure is written in the stars for us.”
“And what’s that?” I whisper, dizzy with joy.
“You were always meant for me, Mabel Muldowney,” he says, his voice wrapped in wonder, every word carrying the weight of loving me all his life, “and I was always meant for you.”
Epilogue
CAL 5 YEARS LATER
I watch my wife through the half-open bathroom door, struck by the sheer wonder of her. She stands at the sink in her signature pink Dior heels and a vintage Chloé silk wrap dress, blush-toned with cream piping, cinched perfectly at the waist. The hem flutters just above her knees. She’s poised, radiant, and my partner in life. And yeah, I can identify piping, cinched waists, and flounces.
“You look beautiful, honey,” I say, stepping into the light with her.
She offers me a knowing smile in the mirror. She’s not surprised to see me. She knows I’ve been watching. She moves with practiced ease, applying a powder to her cheeks while her wedding ring catches the glow of the vanity bulbs.
Five years ago, when Elias offered me Carol’s ring, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. It was the one. Vintage, even. Full of history and heart, and it felt right in my palm. Mabel and I decided on matching rose-gold wedding bands to coordinate with her M charm necklace. Yeah, I’m a burly farmer with a pink ring. I wouldn’t change a damn thing about that.
Mabel holds my gaze in the mirror. “Even after all this time, I still get nervous before these things.”
She sets down the makeup brush and adjusts her necklace. I move behind her, gently sweeping her dark hair over her shoulder. I press a kiss to the curve of her neck. Her lavender-scented skin is warm beneath my lips.
“We’ve got a little time. Perhaps a farmhand with rough, strong hands could help you settle those nerves,” I offer.
She leans into me, a knowing glint twinkling in her eyes. “Is there one in the vicinity?” she asks, reaching back to brush her fingers along my jaw.
“It’s your lucky day, little lady. I happen to work the land.” I skim my hands down her torso. Every inch of her draws me in. I trace the line of her waist, then ease the silk up over her thighs. That’s when I feel it—the heat of her bare ass.
“Well, now,” I murmur, a low grin tugging at my lips. “Ma’am, I believe you are missing your undergarments.”
She gasps, her eyes wide, feigning surprise but flush with anticipation. “My goodness. How did that happen?”
I kiss her neck again and slowly slide my hand between her thighs. Her breath hitches as I massage her. She closes her eyes, and her head tilts back against me. I watch her hips move against my hand, a slow, sexy rock as she grinds against me. I’m hard, aching, already undone by how she responds to me.
She arches her back. “Are you sure we’ve got time?”
“We do,” I murmur against her ear. “You know I’m good with numbers. I’ve got this down to a science. I’ll take care of you.”
And I will. I always do. It’s the promise I live by.
She tilts her head, offering more of her neck. “You know me well, Mr. Horner.”
I increase my pace and feel her grow slick. “It’s why I’m here, Mrs. Horner.”
And God help me, I will never stop loving the sound of that name.
Outside this hotel room, the Organic Farming Association is waiting. Mabel’s the keynote speaker. The spotlight belongs to her today. But in here, she’s mine.
The organization graciously put us up in a two-bedroom suite, and downstairs, there’s a farm-to-table restaurant run by our friends, Preston and Logan. Every meal arrives at our door, fresh, thoughtful, and made with organic ingredients straight from Elverna.
We don’t need our passports for this trip, but they’re not locked away in a drawer. Over the past five years, we’ve crisscrossed the globe. We’ve worked with heirloom grain millers in Normandy and consulted on an urban agriculture project near Paris. We’ve walked the fields with farmers in Tuscany, and in Australia, we worked with a rural community outside Tamworth to help them transition their farmland into a co-op. I’ve led workshops on regenerative farming in New Zealand, Vietnam, and Kenya. And we’ve visited over two dozen states in the US, sharing our vision. Every trip has meant something. Every stop has moved us forward. Together.
Now, am I as good at traveling as Mabel? No. She’s at ease anywhere—in a crowded airport, on a stage, in a room full of strangers who speak six different languages. I still get nervous. But I go. I show up, and I’m growing.
