They wandered through the old hamlet, paved with cobblestone, past thatched roofed shops and Victorian lamps and finally found themselves at a public brewhouse called the Belly of the Beast.

Roughhewn beams, a stone floor and all the aura of legacy filled the pub, the conversation rich with local dialect, shorthanded speech.

RJ and York shared a basket of fish and chips, and York had a pint, while RJ stuck with water. Logan and Roy dove into bangers and mash.

They finally arrived at the resort as the last of the sun hung over the mountains to the west, casting golden rays into the valley below.

The Royal Lodge was built into the side of a hill, with wide ski runs leading down to the A-frame Chalet that spanned the base of the hill.

Built with stone wrought from the hill, and thick timbers, the chalet rose three stories, with a massive window that overlooked the valley. A deck extended from either side of the grand entrance, and every inch of it screamed regal.

They entered into a massive lounge area with a grand fireplace that extended floor to beamed ceiling. Surrounding it were leather chairs and loungers, a massive stone coffee table and RJ imagined that during the winter, the fire would heat the entire building.

Balconies from rooms on the second floor overlooked the lounge, and she checked into a room next to York’s and Roy’s. Logan got one down the hall.

She walked into the room, and wanted to sink onto the massive bed, covered with a fur runner, and fat cotton pillows. The view looked out onto the deep-green Highcrest Mountains.

If ever they’d found a place where they might be safe, it was here.

A knock came at the door, and she opened it.

York stood in the frame. He didn’t even ask—just walked in.

Just walked in, put his arm around her and pulled her to himself. Kept walking all the way until he backed her up against the wall.

“Got something on your mind there, 007?”

He grinned.

Then he kissed her. And it wasn’t hard, wasn’t demanding, but she’d never quite felt so engulfed, so taken by his hunger.

As if he, like she, had been thinking of his words all day.

She curled her arms around him and kissed him back, keenly, terribly aware of Angel’s words. It is my shame that I was not the one who hesitated.

She didn’t want to hesitate, either. But she knew York.

Knew his vows. And frankly, her own. So, “York,” she said, pulling back. “I’m ready.”

He stared at her, his chest rising and falling, those blue eyes holding hers. “RJ —”

“I’m ready to get married,” she whispered.

He drew in a breath. “Okay, as soon as we get home —”