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He groans.

“Don’t start calling me that.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely calling you that.”

“Autumn.”

“Grimmy?”

“Don’t.”

“Grim Reaperson?”

“Jesus Christ.”

I dissolve into laughter.

He pulls the blankets over us.

And when I finally settle against him, his hand finds mine beneath the covers.

This time, neither of us lets go.

Epilogue One

GRIM

Two Weeks Later

I’ve survived a motorcycle accident, six months of physical rehabilitation, and ten years of waking up with a headache that feels like somebody’s trying to drill through my skull.

But none of that compares to the sheer fucking terror of walking into a jewelry store and asking a woman named Barbara to help me pick out an engagement ring.

“How long have you been together?” she’d asked.

“Ten years.”

“Wonderful!”

“With a ten-year break.”

Her smile had faltered.

“Well. That’s… unusual.”

“You have no fucking idea.”

Now, one week later, I’m sitting on my motorcycle outside the Devil’s Peak Harvest Festival with a black velvet box in my jacket pocket and a bouquet of black roses strapped to the back of my bike.

Seventy-five thousand dollars to get the woman of my dreams to talk to me.

Another twelve thousand to convince her to spend the rest of her life with me.

If she says yes, it’ll be the best money I’ve ever spent.

If she says no, I’m moving to fucking Alaska.

“Nice flowers, Blackwood.”