Page 62 of Heartbeats & Highways

Virgil went to the door and unlocked it. A man well over six foot five instinctively ducked underneath the doorframe and stepped inside. He was thick in the neck and shoulders, his arms covered in tattoos, and a bushy beard concealed most of his face.

My head tilted back so I could meet his gaze. “You must be Moose.”

Moose grinned. “That’s me.”

I looked at Roman. “Your first appointment is here.”

“I see that.” Roman laughed and stalked forward, holding out his hand. “How’re you doing, Moose?”

“Can’t complain.” Moose clasped Roman’s hand in his large paw and gave it a vigorous shake.

“You’re new,” Moose said to me.

“Yes. I’m Evie.”

“Let’s get you in the chair. I’m excited to finish your back,” Roman said.

“You and me both.” Moose followed Roman down the hallway, but he wasn’t at all quiet when he said, “What happened to Brielle?”

“She went back to her regular job.”

“Cool. Pie in the Sky, right?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Roman warned.

“Don’t even think about what?”

“Asking my sister out. She’s off-limits.”

“You were right. Homemade sourdough bread is the best,” Savage said.

He brushed his lips across my bare belly and my fingers sank into his hair.

“How are you doing? Are you okay?” he asked.

I painted his mouth with my pointer finger. “Better than okay.”

“It’s been an intense few days. I was just checking.”

“I’m the one who should be checking on you,” I stated. “I clobbered you with a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he murmured dreamily. “I like this.”

“Savage?”

“Hmm?”

“Am I your Old Lady?”

He froze and then he lifted his head to stare at me. “Are you my Old Lady?”

I bit my lip in fear, but I forced myself to plow forward. “Virgil said something earlier today . . . it just got me thinking. You bought me a car and you said you loved me. But you never said anything about wanting me to be your Old Lady.”

Savage stared at me intently. “An Old Lady is more serious to a biker than a wife. A wife is just . . . it’s paperwork that can be re-written and dissolved if things don’t work out. An Old Lady . . . that’s a claim onlifewith someone—a promise that you’re willing to die for them. A promise you’re willing to ink on your own skin. Babe,” he smiled, “what do you think I meant when I said there was no going back? That you weremine.”

A slow smile stretched across my face.

He kissed my stomach. And then he kissed lower.

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