Page 45 of The Biker and His Bride

Our future.

With ocean breeze, clinking glasses, the outlaw king, and me—the runaway bride who finally stopped running and started building.

Brick by brick.

Dream by dream.

Side by side.

EPILOGUE

Two Years Later

The low-country sunset washed Magnolia & Throttle Inn in molten gold, the kind of light painters chase but never quite capture. Fireflies blinked on in the jasmine, and the distant hum of a baby dirt bike rumbled through the back garden—equal parts lullaby and promise.

Two years had transformed the Victorian manor into a legend. Charleston society spilled over its double verandas every weekend: rehearsal dinners under Edison bulbs, garden weddings where violinists played Springsteen covers, spa retreats that booked out six months in advance. The rooftop champagne bar served oysters and Old-Fashioneds at a pace no one could have predicted, and Poppy’s bourbon-pecan pralines had their own Instagram fan club.

Riley paused on the veranda, fingers brushing the antique railing. She wore a pale linen sundress, curls caught in a silk ribbon. From here she could see the new wedding tent glowing at the far end of the lawn—white fabric billowing like a ship’s sail, laughter drifting on warm salt air. Another ceremony wrapped, another pair of newlyweds toasted beneaththe chandelier Rogue had hung himself, shirtless and grinning while board-wives fanned themselves below.

“What’s the tally?” came a familiar drawl behind her.

She turned. Rogue leaned in the doorway, tux jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow to reveal ink that still made half of Charleston swoon. His tie was missing—Riley suspected it had been claimed by a bridesmaid as a souvenir.

“Third wedding this week,” she said. “Books are full till Christmas.”

He smirked. “Remember when folks thought we were a novelty?”

“The novelty of shirtless bellboys never gets old.”

He pulled her close, pressing a kiss to the shell of her ear. “Speaking of bellboys—guess who hit number four on Amazon’s romance list?”

Riley’s eyes widened. “No…”

“‘Throttle My Heart,’ by J. J. Booker.” Rogue chuckled. “Turns out Prospect JJ finished that manuscript he was scribbling between night shifts.”

JJ—Jason Booker—had arrived two years earlier clutching a dog-eared copy of *Moby-Dick* and a half-finished sleeve tattoo. Nobody guessed the quiet prospect with a switchblade in his boot was polishing a love story inspired by a runaway bride and an outlaw king. He’d uploaded it to Kindle Direct on a dare from Meadow. Sales snowballed; the Charleston Courier ran a feature; boardwives doubled their stay just to say they’d slept where the novel was set.

Riley laughed until tears pricked. “Does he know we’re onto him?”

“Signed a first-print deal yesterday. Brought me a bottle of top-shelf Scotch as thanks for ‘creative royalty.’”

She swatted his chest. “We should charge him location fees.”

“Already negotiated: lifetime supply of autographed copies for the lobby.”

A shriek of delighted laughter cut across the lawn. Their son—Logan “Cub” Thorne Jr.—zipped through the grass on his battery-powered mini dirt bike, tiny leather cut stitched BADASS TODDLER flapping behind him. Fireflies scattered in his wake like sparks.

Trigger jogged after him, brand-new prospect patch dangling from his pocket. “Slow it down, mini-Prez!”

Cub revved harder, donuts carving dusty crescents near the hydrangeas.

Riley’s heart swelled. “He’s fearless.”

“Like his mama.” Rogue slid an arm around her waist. “Speaking of fearless, I’m thinking we start that foundation for at-risk kids next quarter. Use a chunk of the inn profits. Whitmore grants just came in—ironic, huh?”

Whitmore grants. After Caleb’s empire crumbled—thanks to hidden ledgers and a well-timed federal raid—the state repurposed seized funds into community programs. Magnolia & Throttle won the bid to renovate the youth rec center. Full circle.

Riley rose on tiptoes, kissed Rogue slow. “From runaway bride to nonprofit CEO. Can’t make this stuff up.”

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