Page 23 of The Biker and His Bride

RILEY

O ne month.

That’s how long it had been since we rolled back from the Isle of Palms with sand still in our shoes and coconut lotion still perfuming every inch of my skin.

One month since Rogue whispered promises against my belly about cabins and babies and ocean-view dream houses.

One month of me helping stock bottles behind Fire Skulls’s bar while construction crews hammered pilings for a one-bedroom cabin just beyond the pines.

I loved watching the cabin rise—loved the smell of fresh-cut lumber and the way Rogue’s shoulders flexed when he swung a hammer.

But by day twenty-eight, the itch started.

An old itch I’d once tried to scratch with debutante luncheons and charity galas—only now, chiffon and white gloves felt like foreign skin.

I needed purpose, something that fused my new world and the one I’d left behind.

So I took a walk through Sable Creek’s tiny downtown.

Three blocks of weathered storefronts, moss-draped live oaks, and streetlamps wrapped in twinkle lights. The florist waved from behind tulips. The antique shop smelled like dust and memories. There was charm here—raw, unpolished charm begging for a lick of paint and a vision.

Vision was something I had in spades.

By the time I returned to the clubhouse, my phone buzzed nonstop.

The moment I’d resurfaced on social media post-“kidnapping,” Charleston society had gone feral.

They wanted to know everything: How did I meet Rogue?

Was it true we married in Vegas? Were those *real* diamonds?

Every filter-perfect photo I posted of our cabin build racked up thousands of likes from sorority sisters and bored trophy wives sipping lunchtime rosé.

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.

**Step One: 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.

Sun filtered through cracked stained-glass windows, painting dust motes in rainbow shards.

I padded through scuffed hardwood rooms, seeing possibilities not problems—velvet lounges, antique chandeliers, claw-foot tubs facing sunrise.

Rogue noticed the bowing joists, the termite tracks, the plumbing older than both of us combined.

“Money pit,” he muttered.

“Gold mine,” I corrected.

The price? Two hundred grand, as-is. Rogue talked Harris down to one-fifty over one plate of biscuits and a promise to preserve the historical plaque. We paid cash.

Deed in hand, I posted a single photo on Instagram—a sun-drenched shot of the filigree arch above Magnolia Manor’s doorway, captioned: *The next chapter begins.*

Within twenty-four hours, we had eighty pre-bookings.

Charleston’s boardwives flocked to my DMs: *Do you have a suite with a soaking tub? Could we host a charity brunch? Will your husband give tours?*

Rogue read them aloud at church meeting, laughter echoing off cinder-block walls. Pitbull flexed when he heard “boardwives.” Trigger asked if bellboys got tips or phone numbers.

“Both,” I said, filing the requests in a color-coded spreadsheet.

**Step Two: Staff.**

Prospects doubled as demo crew, ripping out moldy drywall with gleeful swings of sledgehammers.

Diesel handled permits. Nash oversaw security installing discreet cameras and state-of-the-art locks.

Meadow’s cousin Poppy agreed to helm the kitchen—Southern fusion dishes plated like art.

Meadow herself planned the spa menu—sea-salt scrubs, hot-stone massages, MC muscle on standby to refill water carafes.

I ordered robes stitched with *Magnolia Poppy tasting bourbon-glazed salmon; Rogue sanding reclaimed barn wood for the headboards.

Each clip racked up more followers. A Charleston lifestyle influencer begged for an exclusive preview.

Coastal Living reached out for a feature.

Rogue watched the numbers climb, arms folded across inked chest. “You’re a damn magician.”

“I just sell what’s real.”

He kissed my forehead. “Real is risky.”

“So is love,” I whispered.

His eyes softened. “Worth it.”

One afternoon, while the roofers hammered slate tiles and Diesel argued with the inspector about fire-code egress, Rogue found me in what would become the Honeysuckle Suite—turret room, three hundred sixty-degree windows, view of the oaks.

I was pinning swatches—sea-glass blue, cream linen—onto a vision board.

“Need a break?” he asked.

I wiped paint from my cheek. “Can’t stop. Deadline’s three months.”

He circled behind me, palms sliding down my arms, breath warm on my neck. “Got a surprise.”

I turned. He held up a tiny leather vest—cut no larger than a paperback, stitched with a patch that read BADASS TODDLER. My heart stuttered.

“Logan…”

“Prospect made it,” he said roughly. “Just in case.”

Emotion flooded me—hope, fear, joy. I pressed the vest to my chest. “We don’t even know if?—”

His hand covered my lower belly. “Hope’s enough.”

Tears blurred the room. He kissed them away.

“Now take a break,” he murmured. “Prospects can paint for an hour.”

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.

**Grand Opening 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 scent of 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.

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.