Page 13 of Falling for Felix
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by something warmer and more dangerous. "Then it won't be."
He holds out his hand, and I cross the small space to take it. He pulls me down onto the bed beside him, coffee forgotten on the counter.
"You sure about this?" he asks, searching my face. "I'm not easy. And I've gotten pretty good at being alone."
"I'm not asking for things to be easy." I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. "I'm just asking you to try something different."
"With you."
"With me."
Outside, I can hear the festival coming to life—vendors setting up, early customers wandering through, the cheerful chaos of a small-town celebration. But inside the RV, everything feels quiet and loaded with possibility.
"Okay," Felix says simply.
"Okay?"
"Okay, let's try something different."
I grin and lean down to press my lips to his, trying to pour everything I’m feeling into the kiss.
"Good," I whisper against his mouth. "Because I have a lot more ideas where last night came from."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
And when he kisses me back—deep and thorough and like he has all the time in the world—I know that for the first time in my nomadic life, I've found exactly where I want to be.
Epilogue
Felix
Sixmonthslater,thebell over the general store door still jingles the same as it has my entire life. Not much changes in Maple Ridge.
But some things do.
I glance up from the custom shelving unit I'm installing along the back wall. It’s made from reclaimed barn wood and has Harper's mosaic tile work integrated into the frame. The piece took us three weeks to complete, working together in my workshop while Pickles supervised from his designated corner bed.
Harper breezes through the door like she’s a Maple Ridge local, which she basically is now. Maybe she hasn’t lived hereher whole life like I have, but the people of Maple Ridge have welcomed her as one of their own. Her purple glasses are perched on her nose, her hair's escaped from its braid in about six different directions, and she's carrying a travel mug that definitely contains more cream and sugar than actual coffee.
"Morning, Joy!" she calls out, then spots me crouched by the wall. "And good morning to my favorite grumpy craftsman."
Joy snorts from behind the register. "Grumpy? That man hasn't scowled properly since Halloween.”
It's true. Harper has systematically dismantled every defense I spent years building, and I can't bring myself to care.
She crosses the store to where I'm working, stepping over Pickles, who's sprawled across the floor like he pays rent. "Last bracket?"
"Should be." I tighten the final screw and step back to survey our work. The shelving unit runs the length of the back wall, displaying a carefully curated mix of local crafts and Harper's mosaic work. It's functional and beautiful, built to last decades.
Like a lot of things in my life lately.
Harper examines the installation with the critical eye of someone who knows quality craftsmanship. After a moment, she nods approvingly. "Not bad for a man who thought he was going to spend the rest of his life alone."
"Not bad for a woman who claimed to be a nomadic artist."
She grins and steps closer. "Guess we're both full of surprises."
