The idea still blows my mind that we’re here. That she’s here. And that we’re ten times stronger, better, more in love than I ever thought a person could be.

It’s fucking insanity.

And the reason for that overload of sensations is curled up beside me on the couch, her legs draped over my lap, a steaming mug of coffee between her hands. She’s barely touched it. Her eyes keep flicking to the television, to the screen where the nominations are about to be announced.

The song. Our song.

The one I couldn’t seem to get right until she came along.

The one I could hear but struggled with creating until I knew she was mine.

Beauty often comes after struggle.

Those were her words then and they’ve proven to be true now.

That beauty after struggle, Sweet Surrender, has topped the charts this year, climbed its way into people’s hearts, and somehow, impossibly, landed itself in Grammy contention.

And life—our life—has never been better.

The bakery is thriving. Booming even. After we got Paul out of the picture for good, Hendrix threw herself into the business and made it even more extraordinary than it already was. There’s even a six-month waitlist for her custom cookies now, and just last week, Food & Wine featured her in an article about up-and-coming specialty shops in the Los Angeles area.

I’ve never seen her shine the way she does when she’s in that kitchen, covered in flour, creating magic out of sugar and butter.

And I get to call her mine.

Hendrix chews on her bottom lip, and I reach out, tugging it free with my thumb. “You’re nervous,” I murmur, amused.

She snorts. “I’m not nervous. You’re nervous.”

I grin. “You’ve been gripping that coffee cup like it personally offended you.”

She rolls her eyes and sets it down in a show of defiance. “There. Happy? I am not nervous. You’re going to get nominated this morning, which is good and bad. Good because that means you’re about to be one of eight songs nominated for Song of the Year. Bad because that means it’s going to be a mad scramble to find a dress suitable enough to wear to the event.”

“Designers will be clamoring to dress you, Cookie.”

“Of course they will.” She presses a kiss to my shoulder. “They’ll want to dress the wife of the songwriter who is going to win.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t even been nominated yet.”

“You’re about to be though . . .”

And before I can respond, before I can tell her not to jinx the process, the screen changes graphics, and a voice fills the room.

“And the nominees for Song of the Year are . . .”