Page 1 of Gator (Bourbon Kings MC #1)

“Another.”

“Tell us another, Papa!”

“Please, Papa. One more.”

The chorus of tiny voices was music to my ears, even if it sometimes sounded like a flock of particularly demanding sparrows.

My three little cherubs, all curled up under a patchwork quilt my m?man gifted them the day they were born to ward off the evil spirits.

I tried telling my m?man that no quilt would do that considering who their mother was, but she refused to listen to me.

My bayou sprites. My beautiful, mischievous, utterly terrifying sprites. Their mother—I shuddered just thinking about the force of nature I married wrapped in silk and smelling faintly of lilies and brimstone.

Was she the love of my life?

Yep. No doubt about that, but Gaw’d Almighty, that woman could still burn hotter than the sun when the mood suited her.

But these little sprites? Pure, adorable chaos.

The perfect blend of angelic innocence and demonic cunning. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Not even a lifetime supply of Hell’s Inferno and that was saying something ’cause everyone knew I loved a good whiskey.

“Well, you’ve heard the story of the Princess and the Frog, right?”

Three enthusiastic nods. Even the sweet one, the youngest by twelve minutes, managed a bobble of her head, nearly toppling over in the process.

“Have you heard of the Gator Prince and his Fire-Breathing Dragon?”

My oldest, the one so much like her mother, gasped. Her eyes, the exact shade of her mother’s, which was terrifying in itself, especially when she looked at me like I was stupid, widened with anticipation. “No! Is it scary?”

The story, of course, was entirely fabricated, well mostly, but I wasn’t going to tell them that.

Hell, most stories were made up on the spot, fueled by a potent blend of exhaustion and caffeine.

However, this one involved a surprisingly handsome, sophisticated, brilliant gator who ran the best bar in New Orleans, a beautiful fire-breathing dragon with a crippling fear of heights, and a complex plot involving an innocent little kidnapping, lots of whiskey, and a friendly alligator named Jerky.

Along the way, there were some simple misunderstandings, wacky disguises, and, of course, ultimately, a surprisingly heartwarming reconciliation fueled by a shared appreciation for a New Orleans muffaletta and maybe, just maybe, there was a teeny bit of bloodshed.

But that was purely accidental.

I swear!

I rubbed my chin, a mischievous glint in my eye. “No, Chèr. It ain’t scary. You see, it all started when...”