Page 37 of The Biker and His Bride

No one was.

A group of pearl-draped ladies gathered near the bar, swarming like bees. One of them touched Rogue’s arm.

“So… what do you do for a living, Mr.…?”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “I own a bar.”

“A bar?”

“And a tattoo parlor. And a strip club.”

They gasped.

One clutched her pearls.

Another giggled like she was sixteen again.

Rogue leaned down and whispered, “And I make your daughter very, very happy.”

I thought someone might faint.

He found me across the room, pulled me close, pressed a kiss to my temple in front of everyone.

“I don’t belong here,” he murmured.

“You belong with me.”

We left the gala early.

“Ready for our second wedding night?” He growled, nipping my ear with a tooth.

“More than ready,”I whispered back, playfully slapping his muscled butt.

And I never looked back.

19

RILEY

We’d dealt with bullets, bribery, and a Vegas wedding that made Elvis blush. After Charleston, after the country club spectacle and a half-dozen whispers trailing us out the door, Rogue and I needed air—salty, sun-swept, no pearls or spinach quiche in sight. The Isle of Palms felt like a different planet: dunes rolling soft like tan velvet, pelicans gliding overhead, sweetgrass nodding in the sea breeze.

The Airbnb was a weather-worn cedar house perched on stilts, white shutters, wraparound deck, and a hot tub that looked directly over the Atlantic. Inside it smelled like driftwood and sunscreen. A welcome note sat on the counter: *Kick off your shoes and stay awhile.*

We didn’t need to be told twice.

First thing, Rogue walked straight onto the deck, peeled off his shirt, and tipped his head back as if he meant to swallow the horizon.

“Better than neon?” I asked, stepping out behind him.

“Better than breathing,” he answered, and then he pulled me into a kiss so deep I forgot about tide charts and dinner plans.

We spent the afternoon barefoot. I unpacked tuna steaks from the cooler and Rogue fired up the charcoal grill on the deck, humming an old rock ballad while the coals turned ember-red. He seasoned the fish with salt and lime, all simple perfection, then grilled corn until kernels popped and splashed juice. We ate on the deck steps, legs dangling, sun sliding lower. He fed me forkfuls, licking juice from my chin.

When the plates were scraped clean, we brewed French press coffee with beans Trigger swore were “roasted by Satan himself.” Strong enough to make the mug shake. Rogue cooled mine with ice, swirling it in a mason jar until condensation beaded. We clinked glasses and watched violet shadows stretch across the sand.

“Card game?” he asked, producing a dog-eared deck from his back pocket.

I raised a brow. “You haul that everywhere?”

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