Page 6 of The Biker and His Bride

ROGUE

T he bar was finally quiet.

Pitbull and Rookie Nate were inside mopping floors like their lives depended on it—because they damn well did. Trigger stood guard, arms crossed, making sure they didn’t half-ass a single inch. The rest of the brothers drifted off to bunk rooms, the hum of engines outside dying one by one.

I snagged two long-neck beers from the cooler, wiped the condensation on my jeans, and headed for the back porch where Riley waited.

She sat on the wooden steps, knees tucked to her chest, my oversized club T-shirt swallowing her frame. Moonlight turned her hair to silver and the bruise blooming on her cheek into something darker. My gut twisted—anger, guilt, want, all tumbled together.

I eased down beside her and offered the beer.

“Peace offering?” she asked.

“Hydration,” I said. “And apology. Should’ve kept that fight from getting near you.”

She twisted the cap off, took a careful sip. “I’ve seen worse.”

“Doesn’t mean you should’ve had to.”

Silence stretched. Crickets hummed. Somewhere beyond the tree line a coyote yipped. Riley traced the label on her bottle with her thumb.

“I notice you made them clean,” she said.

I smirked. “If you wanna brawl in my bar, you damn well better know how to disinfect tile grout.”

A soft laugh escaped her—the kind that made something in my chest loosen. She tilted her head, studying me under half-lidded lashes.

“Big, bad biker with a code,” she teased. “You keep surprising me.”

“Stick around. Might surprise you again.”

She glanced past the porch rail to the patch of earth beside the shop—raised beds, neat rows, tomato cages.

“Is that a… garden?”

I scratched the back of my neck. “Yeah.”

“You grow vegetables?”

“Fresh salsa’s cheaper than store-bought.”

She grinned. “What else you got planted over there, Farmer Rogue?”

“Tomatoes, peppers, herbs. Some flowers too. Good for pollinators.”

“Hard-ass outlaw president who gardens. You are a walking contradiction.”

I shrugged. “COVID lockdown got boring. Needed a hobby.”

“Let me guess—you crochet on rainy days too?”

I turned to her, slow smile spreading. “You’d be amazed what I can do with skilled hands in unexpected places.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she held my gaze. Brave girl.

I took a pull from my beer, then set it aside and leaned my elbows on my knees. The night air pressed close—humid, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and steel.

“We should talk,” I said.

“About the fight?”

“About us.”

She tensed. “There isn’t an ‘us.’ We agreed—no relationships.”

“Yeah. Thing is, agreements change.”

She swallowed, eyes darting to the garden like it might save her. “I’m not good at trusting. Last time I did, I got hurt.”

“Join the club,” I muttered, thinking of Brielle’s laugh in that motel parking lot.

“I’m serious, Rogue.”

“So am I, Riley.”

I shifted closer until our shoulders brushed. She didn’t pull away.

“I don’t do casual well,” she whispered. “I catch feelings.”

“Already caught mine,” I said before I could stop myself.

Her breath hitched. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough. You work hard. You don’t scare easy. You fought off a drunk prospect without flinching. And you make the bar shine like new money.”

She huffed. “That last part doesn’t scream soulmate material.”

“Shows backbone. Shows pride. Shows you give a damn. That’s rare.”

Lightning bugs flickered in the grass. Somewhere inside, Diesel barked orders and Pitbull grumbled about bleach burns.

Riley set her beer down and rested her chin on her knees. “I’m still not ready for anything serious.”

“Neither am I,” I admitted. “But maybe we just… see where it goes?”

Her lips curved. “I can handle ‘see.’ But no promises…”

I held up my bottle. “To no promises.”

She clinked hers against mine. “To surprises.”

We drank, letting the quiet settle—not awkward, not uncomfortable, just easy. And for the first time in months, I felt something like peace slide under my skin.

Garden beds. Porch swings. A woman who didn’t flinch when the world went loud.

Maybe the universe had a sense of humor after all.

Because damn if the toughest thing I’d faced in a long time wasn’t a five-foot-nothing barmaid with a bruise on her cheek and steel in her spine.

And I was already thinking about what kind of flowers she’d like come morning.