Page 24 of The Biker and His Bride
T wo Years Later
The low-country sunset washed Magnolia 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 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.