A light exhalation leaves him, the thick fan of his lashes fluttering with his dreams. I let him be. The poor man more than earned his sleep.

Languid and replete, I lift my arms and stretch out all the delicious little aches and pains that making love to Rye left behind. The room is warm enough that I don’t bother with a robe but pad naked to the bathroom.

When I return, I curl up on the end of the bed, watching the fire play over the pale walls, and draw in the faint scent of lavender tingeing the air. I have no idea where it comes from, but it is sweet and clean and soothes me. Every part of this room is created for enjoyment. And all I can think is that I am here, and I am grateful. I love my life and the people in it.

Contentment has me feeling lazy. I revel in it, give myself permission to let go. It’s surprisingly easy to do with Rye.

Damn, but the man can put a smile on my face even when he’s sleeping less than two feet away. I allow myself that joy too, because I’m done worrying about what I’m supposed to be doing.

Behind me, Rye stirs, uttering an adorably confused grunt, and I know he’s awake and most likely rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

I continue to watch the fire and feel his gaze like a warm caress along my back.

“Good sleep?” I ask softly.

He grunts again, a sated beast lounging in his bed.

“Yeah,” he says, just as soft. He’s silent for a moment. “You okay?”

The sound of his quiet care has me smiling, but I don’t turn around. Not yet. A strange sort of peaceful lethargy keeps me in place. “Yes. Just thinking about my parents.”

He waits a beat before answering. “They don’t deserve you, baby.”

Baby. We rarely call each other by those types of names. But the way he says it, gentle and tender, makes me feel wrapped up in his protection. I like it. A lot.

Ducking my head, I pick at the cashmere duvet cover. “I’m okay. Better, actually.”

With a light sigh, I tilt my head back and blink up at the ceiling. “I was sitting here, feeling safe and content, and this realization stole over me. For my entire life, I worried about fitting in, felt like I was the outsider when it came to the wealth and success Killian, his parents, and you guys in the band all had.”

Rye doesn’t say a word, but I know he’s ready to reach out if I need it, and the words come easier.

“I’d hear my parents’ warnings, all the times they said I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t fit in this world, and deep down, I believed it. But the truth is, my parents were the ones who didn’t fit. They were the outsiders, not because they weren’t good enough, but because they didn’t let themselves belong.

“I belong here for the simple reason the people in my life care about me, and this wealth and success is the result of hard work and talent. I fit in because this is the life I made for myself. For years, I ran from anything that threatened to leave me emotionally open. I denied myself true happiness, denied myself you. Back in that kitchen, I stopped running, and everything shifted. And…I don’t know…it just truly sank in.”

Pausing, I smooth my hand over my bare knee, that gentle sense of peace floating over me. “We are who we are, and who we are is pretty great as far as I’m concerned. No one can take that from me without my permission. Not even my parents.”

When I finish, Rye doesn’t say anything. But I know he’s heard and is processing. The bed creaks with his movement, then his voice, thick with sleep but also emotion, reaches over the small space between us.

“I love you.”

So simply said, like it’s always been true.

It soaks into my skin, fills my heart. Finally, I turn. He reclines on his side, head resting in his hand, looking back at me with that truth shining in his eyes. Strong, pure, gorgeous. Mine.

This man is mine. My friend. My lover. My home. My heart.

“I love you too.”

His smile is the dawn. And when he reaches out to tug me against his solid warmth, I go willingly, curling into him and threading my fingers in his messy hair.

The corners of his denim-blue eyes crinkle as he touches my cheek with the blunt tips of his fingers. “We just said we loved each other.”

“We did.”

The grin turns incandescent. “Say it again, so I can fully soak it up.”

“I love you.”

“God, that’s nice.” He kisses me, melting little presses of lips to lips. “One more time.”

“I love you, Ryland Peterson.”

“Mmm…Just gets better and better.” He rolls me back and settles between my legs, his big, firm body a blanket of warmth around me.

I stroke the short strands of his thick hair. “Let me see. Tell me again.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, a look of utter happiness lighting his face. “I love you, Brenna James.”

“You’re right, it feels really good.”

Rye hums and kisses the crook of my neck. “I’ll tell you every day, then.”

Little shivers of delight race over my skin. “And twice on Sundays?”

“Multiple times every day.” He finds the sensitive spot under my ear, his voice dipping. “I’ll say it whenever I’m thinking it, which is basically all the time.”

I trace the hard curve of his shoulder where his skin is hot and tight. “Let’s not go crazy, now.”

“You’ll love it,” he growls against my neck, playfully nipping me.

My smile pulls wide, joy making me giddy. “You’re right. I will.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling and infectious. And suddenly I’m laughing too, wrapping myself more firmly around him as he peppers my face with kisses, his big body quaking with humor.

“Why are we laughing?” I ask idly, my hands finding their way back into his hair.

Rye lifts his head and meets my gaze. His entire heart is in his eyes and it is stunningly beautiful.

“Because we’re happy, Berry. We’re happy.”

Epilogue

Brenna

 

Rye finds me by the pool. I’m more of a burner than a tanner, so I wait until the sun is low in the sky to take a swim. I’ve had a long day, talking to prospective clients, coordinating with my new staff to set the business up—including wooing Jules away from Scottie’s employ. I’d feel guilty about that if he hadn’t given me his blessing to pursue her.

Now, all I want to do is drink my cocktail and hang out with my man.

When he stops at the end of the double-wide lounger I’m sitting on, I smile up at him. “Hey, buttercup. You done for the day?”

We’ve set up camp at his LA house. And it’s been surprisingly easy, living and sharing workspace together. I took the home office that overlooked the valley below, and Rye mainly spends time in one of the studio spaces. So far, he’s produced two albums this spring, and is working with a bunch of other artists for upcoming projects.

“All done.” He eases in next to me, his big bulk taking up most of the space. With a happy sigh, he leans down and kisses me, his hand cupping my cheek in that way of his that says I’m his world. I melt into the touch, humming in pleasure.

When he pulls back, his expression is relaxed and light. A far cry from how he’d been for so many months. The time off from the band had been hard at first; he’d felt like he was abandoning them. But then he started to heal, to expand his creativity with producing, and the tight lines of pain around his mouth and eyes began to ease.