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“Apparently you can. Bestseller, remember?”
They laughed. Sunset deepened to rose, then violet. Poppy’s kitchen crew rolled a dessert cart onto the lawn—mini key-lime pies crowned with torched meringue. Guests applauded; a string quartet launched into a bluesy rendition of “Born to Be Wild.” Somewhere near the swing, Diesel flipped fairy lights on, bathing the oak branches in soft glow.
Riley watched her husband move down the steps to scoop Cub off the bike, toss him high while the toddler squealed,engine still sputtering indignantly. Rogue’s laughter rolled rich across the dusk.
She breathed in honeysuckle, diesel, and distant ocean salt. Two years ago she’d fled this city with a backpack and a broken heart. Tonight she ruled it—tattooed king on one side, fearless prince on the other, a kingdom built on reclaimed wood and second chances.
Fireflies bobbed around her like floating wishes. She closed her eyes, whispered a thank-you to whoever was listening.
When she opened them, Rogue was climbing back up the stairs, Cub nestled on one broad hip, toddler cut glowing under string lights.
“Bedtime,” Rogue announced, though his grin said donuts might continue after cupcakes. Cub waved a sticky hand, eyes drooping, face smudged with chocolate.
Riley took her son, kissed his forehead, then tucked him against Rogue’s shoulder. Together they walked toward the glow of the manor, passing guests who toasted crystal flutes in their wake.
Behind them, the ocean breeze carried strains of laughter and the hum of a story still being written—one wedding, one boardwife brunch, one outlaw lullaby at a time.
And under the hush of fireflies and far-off waves, Magnolia & Throttle Inn kept its lights burning—beacon and haven, promise and proof—that the most unlikely love stories are sometimes the ones that burn the brightest.