And I fell asleep holding my bride-to-be in my arms.
Epilogue
Lila
Within three days, Pretty Boy had a cut made up for me, with Property of Pretty Boy across the back. When I was closing the boutique for the day, he pulled up to the curb in his truck, eager to present it to me.
“You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you?” I said, amused as I unfolded the cut and held it up.
“Well, you did say you would let another man marry you if I didn’t move fast enough. So, here I am.”
He took the cut from me and held it out so I could slide it on. It fit like a glove, with warm, smooth leather, and a comforting weight across my shoulders.
“Let me guess,” I said. “We’re going to the clubhouse so you can show me off.”
He grinned. My heart skipped at the sight of that smile. Fuck, he looked so good, I just wanted to sink my teeth into him.
“Can you blame me?” he replied. “You're fucking gorgeous."
I batted my lashes at him and gave him a little twirl, making sure to turn slowly so he got a good, long look at my ass.
“Damn it, baby, you’re killing me,” he groaned.
I laughed and slid my arms around his middle, smiling as I kissed him. He sighed against my mouth, cupping the back of my head to hold me in place for a few seconds longer.
After Pretty Boy got me settled into the passenger seat, he headed for the clubhouse. It was an unseasonably warm evening in late May, so I rolled down my window and let the wind spill through my fingers.
“Have you thought about what bike you’d like to get to replace your old one?” I asked. “As the President of the Reckless Order, you can’t ride around in a truck all the time.”
Pretty Boy shook his head.
“You can’t plan that sort of thing. I’ll know it when I see it. Kind of like a gut instinct type of deal.”
I brushed my windblown hair out of my eyes and squinted at him playfully.
“Ah, yes. The super special relationship between a man and his motorcycle. Should I be jealous?”
He chuckled and offered his hand palm up to me.
“Absolutely not, sweetheart. You’re the only woman I’ve ever proposed to. And you carry my name on your back. My bike might take me where I want to go. But you are the woman I come home to.”
I hummed and placed my hand in his.
“Good answer.”
When we arrived at the clubhouse, Ironside had pulled out the barbecue, puffing away on a cigar while he cooked. He deposited thick slabs of steak onto a tray, held by Brass.
“Perfect timing, you two,” Ironside said, lifting his barbecue tongs in acknowledgement. “The food is fresh off the grill, hot and juicy.”
I kissed his cheek as we passed.
“It smells delicious, Ironside. When are you going to move in and be my personal cook, keeping me fat and happy for the rest of my life?”
Pretty Boy cleared his throat.
“What about me?”
I shrugged with a smirk and kissed his cheek, too.