Page 42 of The Biker and His Bride

Lightbulb.

That night I found Rogue in the war room, blueprint spread across the table. He looked up, eyes softening the moment they landed on me.

“Angel.”

“Got a minute?”

“For you, always.”

I slid a glossy mood board across the blueprints—images I’d printed at the library: sea-glass palettes, open-air verandas, claw-foot tubs, charcuterie boards draped in edible flowers, muscle-bound men in crisp white shirts.

He raised an eyebrow. “Spa porn?”

“Business proposal.”

He set his pencil down. “Talk.”

I inhaled. “Sable Creek is cute—adorable, really—but there’s nowhere for upscale tourists to stay. My social media is lighting up with people begging me to host retreats, brunches, bachelorette weekends. What if we built a boutique inn? Ten suites, farm-to-table dining, rooftop champagne bar, a tiny spa with ocean-salt scrubs. Think ‘Southern coastal luxury meets outlaw edge.’”

His lips twitched. “Outlaw edge?”

“Picture this: The ladies from Charleston drive up for a weekend getaway. They get pampered with facials and five-star food—” I tapped a photo of seared scallops on microgreens— “and they get to watch big, tattooed biker men carry their luggage and shake martinis shirtless.”

Rogue chuckled, sliding closer. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly. And it’s good money. Legit money. It’ll soften the town’s view of the MC. And it gives your prospects real jobs—hospitality, security, logistics.”

He thumbed the corner of the board, thoughtful. “And you’d run it?”

“I’d curate the vibe—design, marketing, menu coordination. We’d hire a chef—maybe Meadow’s cousin?—and I’d manage front-of-house. The club maintains ownership; you keep oversight. Everybody wins.”

He leaned back, studying me like I was a brand-new bike under showroom lights. “You sure you want to jump into this circus? Running an inn isn’t brunch and hashtags.”

“I ran a multi-million-dollar wedding once,” I said. “This will be fun by comparison.”

He barked a laugh, then sobered. “Funding?”

“My parents set up a trust fund when I turned twenty-five. I never touched it because Caleb hovered. Half a million, plus interest. I want to cash it out.”

His brows lifted. “That’s your hedge.”

“No. *We’re* my hedge now. I want to invest in us.”

He cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “Angel, you knock me on my ass daily.”

“Good. Say yes.”

He glanced down at the board again. “High-end spa… rooftop bar… prospects as bellboys.” He smirked. “Imagine Pitbull in a bow tie.”

“Women will tip him just to flex.”

He kissed me—a promise, sealed and signed. “Let’s build your inn.”

I squealed—actually squealed—and Rogue pretended he didn’t melt. Then we got to work.

**StepOne: Location.**

Two blocks off Main stood the abandoned Magnolia Manor—a Victorian relic with peeling paint, sagging porch, and turrets that looked like crooked party hats. The owner, old Mr. Harris, had been trying to unload it for years. Rogue and Diesel accompanied me to the viewing; Trigger tagged along because he heard the attic was haunted.

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