Prologue
Kayla
The late afternoon sun is warm against my face as I finish pulling out the last of the weeds in the flower bed and look up. Standing, I press my hands against my lower back and arch, wincing slightly at the faint soreness there. Pulling off my gloves, I sit down on the wooden porch steps and take a long drink from my water bottle.
“Need water?” I call out to my husband.
“I’m good,” he tells me, turning his head long enough to give me a quick smile.
I can’t take my eyes off Roman as he drives the last screws into the last raised bed. Sweat glistens on his forearms, making the colorful tattoos there seem almost alive as his muscles flex with each twist of the drill. He’s shed his shirt, and I can’t stop watching the way his broad back ripples as he moves. Even after three years together, the sight of him still makes me catch my breath.
“Almost done, Sunshine,” he calls over his shoulder, as if sensing my gaze on him.
Looking around with satisfaction, I take another drink of water. Our backyard is transforming before my eyes; what was once just a patch of grass when we bought the house is slowly becoming my dream garden. Six cedar boxes now form a neatgrid, ready for soil and compost. Next summer, they’ll be overflowing with vegetables and herbs.
Roman steps back, admiring his handiwork before wiping his brow with his forearm. The tattoos that cover his skin tell stories; some I know, others I suspect I never will. The club tattoos tell the most important story of all. The Devil’s Reject emblem prominent on his back marks him as property of the MC as surely as his wedding ring marks him as mine.
“What do you think?” he asks, gesturing to the completed beds.
“They’re perfect.” And they are. Exactly the dimensions I asked for, corners square and true, wood sanded smooth so I won’t get splinters when I tend to my plants.
He grins, that rare, unguarded smile that transforms his face from the hard, intimidating VP of the Devil’s Rejects that everyone else sees to the man only I know. My husband. My Roman.
As he gathers up his tools, my mind drifts back to the first time I saw that smile. Three years ago, I’d been a newcomer to the small town of Redbird. I hadn’t planned on staying in Montana after college, but I’d found a good job and when it came down to it, I didn’t want to leave the mountains of my home state.
The night we met, my co-workers had insisted I join them for drinks after work. We’d gone to a tiny little hole in the wall place called, appropriately enough, The Dive Bar. We hadn’t been there long, maybe about twenty minutes, when I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck.
Like I was being watched.
When I turned, I found myself locked in the gaze of the most striking pair of eyes I’d ever seen. They were ice blue, almost unnaturally bright against his tanned skin and dark beard. He sat at the bar, surrounded by other men in leather cuts like his,with patches I didn’t yet understand the significance of. In that crowded, noisy space, something electric passed between us.
I’d looked away first, heart suddenly racing. But not thirty seconds later, he was there, sliding into the empty chair beside me.
“What are you drinking?” he’d asked, his voice low and rough.
“Lemon drop,” I’d answered, immediately feeling silly next to this man who radiated danger and raw masculinity.
But he hadn’t even blinked. Just nodded and ordered me another, plus a beer for himself. “I’m Roman,” he’d said, extending a hand covered in tattoos.
“Kayla,” I’d replied, my smaller hand disappearing in his grip.
We’d talked for hours. My coworkers eventually left, but I stayed, captivated by this man who spoke little about himself yet listened to me with an intensity that I’d rarely experienced with other men.
Eventually, I realized how late it was and knew I had to get home. Before leaving, however, I’d given him my number, something I never did with men I’d just met. Especially men who looked like they ate girls like me for breakfast.
Our first date came only a few days later. Not dinner or drinks as I’d expected, but the county fair. I remember my trepidation when he pulled up on his motorcycle.
“You ever ridden one of these before?” he’d asked, those blue eyes dancing with something like mischief.
I hadn’t. My mother had been a nurse and had had strong opinions about how foolish and unsafe she found motorcycles to be. But something about Roman made me want to be daring.
The fair had been magical; cotton candy and carnival games, his large hand warm against the small of my back as he guided me through the crowds. He’d won me a ridiculous stuffed pandaat the shooting gallery, hitting every target with an accuracy that should have alarmed me but instead left me impressed.
As the sun set and we walked back to his bike, his arm had slid around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. “Have fun today, Sunshine?” he’d asked.
I laughed at the nickname, tilting my head to look up at him. “Sunshine?”
His face had softened then, thumb brushing my cheek. “Yeah. Watching you enjoy yourself today… it was like basking in a sunbeam.”