“Who better?” I say, avoiding modesty. It has never suited me. “I shall either do that or write the book that will undoubtedly be this century’s treatise on the law.”

“Well, at least we’ll have my painting money to stop us starving,” he says in mock sympathy.

I wonder if anyone has ever loved the way I love this man. Fiercely and passionately. I would do anything for him. I glare at him instead of telling him these things, however. In my opinion, any more confessions in this vein are best saved for lying in the dark together.

But his lips are quirking again, and I’m sure he already knows what I want to say. So I kiss him, taking his warm scent into me and tightening my grip on the man who has turned out to be the best and most beautifully unexpected surprise of my life.

Epilogue

Two Years Later

Laurie

Mags calls out, “Laurie,” and smiling, I put my brush down.

“And that’s the sign we’re done today,” I say to my client. He’s a famous politician who’s being touted for the top job, and I sincerely hope he’s better at politics than he is at sitting still. I watch as he accepts my dictate happily, standing up and stretching.

He wanders over to the small glass case on the table. “I’ve been staring at this all day. What is it?”

I grin at him. “It’s a cassette tape. Why?”

He taps the glass. “I’m not sure why it should be in a case. Is it special?”

I look down at the cassette case with my name scrawled over it. I’d put it in that glass box when we returned to London, much to Mags’s hilarity, but I made sure to transfer the songs to my Spotify playlist first. I listen to the song choices a lot. They’re like Mags—beautiful and a bit quirky. He calls it mawkish sentimentality, but I don’t miss the fond looks he throws at the tape every so often.

“It’s more special than you’ll ever know,” I finally say.

He wrinkles his nose in confusion. “And why is there a red ribbon in there?”

“Memories,” I say vaguely, having no intention of ever telling him the story of how I once wore a ribbon for Mags. That had been a good night.

Luckily, Mags chooses that moment to walk into the studio. My client looks up and smiles. “Magnus,” he says in a voice better suited to shouting across the floor in the House of Commons. “How are you?”

Mags smiles at him. “Julian. I’m fine. How is Laurie treating you? Is he cracking the whip?”

Julian chortles merrily. “I think that’s something you should probably keep private between you and Laurie.”

“No whip,” I say sweetly. “If I had a whip to hand, I’d probably strangle Mags with it.”