Page 44 of The Biker and His Bride

He tugged me downstairs, through sawdust and catcalls, out to the veranda where sunlight dappled the floorboards. He spun me into his arms, music from a work radio drifting through open windows. We slow-danced amid noise, dust, and laughter—outlaw king and runaway socialite turned entrepreneur.

And in that twirl, I realized the inn wasn’t just business. It was bridgework—between who I’d been and who I was now. Between Charleston silk and Sable Creek oil. Between the girl who’d run and the woman who built.

**GrandOpening Announcement:**

I posted a mock-up rendering of Magnolia & Throttle Inn basking in golden afternoon light. White gingerbread trim, double verandas, climbing jasmine. Caption: *Now accepting reservations for spring. Ten luxury suites. One unforgettable experience.*

By nightfall, we were fully booked until July.

Rogue scrolled through the reservation list, whistling low. “Boardwives paying five bills a night to ogle prospects?”

“And buy five-star food,” I teased.

He smirked. “Show me the numbers.”

I flipped my laptop. Spreadsheets, projections, gross margins. His eyes widened. “Damn, angel. You just doubled the club’s legit revenue.”

I shrugged. “Imagine once we add the rooftop champagne bar.”

He barked a laugh. “Ambitious.”

“Outlaw edge.”

He grasped my hips, pulling me close. “Remind me to give you a raise.”

“I’ll put it on your tab,” I whispered against his mouth.

The scentof jasmine and fresh paint mingled with the aroma of Poppy’s bourbon-pecan pralines as the first guests arrived—Range Rovers and Teslas lining the gravel drive. Pitbull wore black slacks and suspenders, sleeves rolled to showcase biceps as he hauled monogrammed luggage. The boardwives all but drooled.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he drawled, voice a low rumble.

Swoons.

Trigger, in tailored vest and bow tie, checked guests in at the antique oak counter, inked fingers flying over an iPad. Nash escorted a bachelorette party to the rooftop tiki bar, where Meadow’s spa staff served lavender lemonade in crystal glasses.

I stood at the foot of the grand staircase in a charcoal dress and heels, heart pounding as more guests flowed in. Rogue descended behind me—black slacks, open collar, silver cuffs glinting. Murmurs rippled: Who is he? Is that her husband?

He took my hand, kissed my knuckles. “Look at what you built.”

“What *we* built.”

Flashbulbs popped—smartphones capturing every polished, dangerous inch of him. And I watched the boardwives fan themselves, their husbands shrink, the prospects grin.

Legitimacy looked good on leather.

That night, when the last champagne flute clinked and the final spa appointment ended, Rogue and I stole to the Honeysuckle Suite. Moonlight spilled across the new four-poster bed. He peeled my dress away, lingering over the fading tan lines he loved.

“Successful opening,” he murmured.

“We’re just getting started.”

He pressed the toddler vest to my stomach, eyes burning with hope. “Damn right.”

We fell into bed amid jasmine-scented sheets, the sounds of revelry soft below, the inn’s heartbeat thumping along with ours.

And as he moved inside me, slow and reverent, I realized we’d turned every broken piece into a bridge.

One that led straight to the future.

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