Page 36 of The Biker and His Bride

Or maybe a god.

Every perfectly coiffed head in the Charleston Country Club turned when Rogue spoke, leather jacket over a black button-up, boots polished, jaw set like stone. His cut wasn’t on, but it might as well have been—the man wore danger like a tailored suit.

The wives stared over their wine glasses and Louis Vuitton clutches, whispering behind manicured hands.

I saw one of them lick her lips.

“Riley,” hissed Ginny, the head of fundraising and number one gossiper, eyes wide as saucers. “Who… who is that?”

“That’s my husband,” I said, with all the pride in the world.

One woman in Lilly Pulitzer pink let her champagne glass clink too hard on the table. Another’s husband nearly choked on his deviled egg. A few younger wives stared openly, eyes roaming from his biceps to his boots to the way he pulled my chair out for me like a damn gentleman.

We sat at the family table by the windows. My parents tried to pretend everything was normal. My mom complimented the quiche. My dad asked Rogue if he watched the PGA Tour.

Rogue, deadpan: “Not unless they start using chainsaws instead of clubs.”

I choked on my mimosa.

“What do you do, Mr. Thorne?” asked Mrs. Becket from the next table, leaning over her shrimp and grits with eager eyes.

Rogue opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.

“He owns several businesses,” I said sweetly, slicing my waffle. “Tattoo parlors, biker bars, strip clubs. You know—places that actually turn a profit.”

Silence.

Then a wave of quiet gasps and awkward sips. One woman fanned herself with the menu. Another blinked twice, clearly reconsidering her marriage.

“You must be very... passionate,” said a woman in pearls, biting her lip.

“Oh, he is,” I replied, grinning.

I swear half the room fainted with their eyes open.

After brunch, Rogue and I stepped out onto the wraparound porch overlooking the golf course. My dad joined us briefly and asked Rogue what kind of engines the club preferred—Harleys or foreign bikes.

“American made, always,” Rogue said.

My dad nodded like that was an acceptable answer. “You know... I never thought my daughter would marry a man like you.”

“I never thought I’d marry,” Rogue said without flinching. “But then again... your daughter’s not like any woman I’ve ever met.”

For once, my father was silent. And in that silence, there was something like respect.

We left shortly after. Rogue helped me onto the bike, his hand slipping under the hem of my sundress. I smacked it playfully, but he only grinned.

As we roared off down the streets of my old life, I didn’t look back.

Because everything that mattered rode in front of me, wrapped in leather, marked by scars and loyalty and a heart that beat louder than any country club’s applause.

And every time a woman gasped behind us, clutching her pearls and watching my man ride into the Southern sunset like a fallen angel with engine grease on his knuckles, I just smiled.

My mother convinced us to stay one more night so she could show off her runaway bride-missing daughter with her new outlaw husband. My mother craved attention and although she’d never admit it—I knew she knew Rogue was quite the catch and the new talk of Charleston. Like a modern day Rhett Butler, he was sweeping high society by storm.

Mother swore she warned them. Told them not to act surprised when he showed up.

But they weren’t ready.

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