EPILOGUE
VIOLET
Two Months Later
The clubhouse has never lookedlike this.
Shelby hung string lights across the rafters of the common area and wrapped white fabric around every post and beam until the room looked like it belonged in a magazine, instead of being the clubhouse of an outlaw MC.
There are wildflowers in mason jars on every table. A three-tier cake sits on the bar. She had it shipped from Tucson because she didn't trust anyone in Ash Valley with buttercream.
Shelby did all of this with very little notice. I told her we didn’t need a reception.
Duke and I got married at the courthouse yesterday morning. We both wore jeans and our cuts. Leo sat on the judge’s desk and ate goldfish crackers through the vows. Duke held my hand, said the words, and kissed me so hard the judge coughed. That was enough for me.
It was not enough for Shelby.
“You’re getting a reception. Sit down and pick a color.”
I picked ivory, and then I picked out a matching sundress. She picked everything else.
And now I’m standing near the bar in that sundress. My ring catches the string lights every time I move my hand. The room is full of leather and laughter, and the bass from the speakers Crash insisted on hooking up.
Camilla is next to me with her son strapped into a baby carrier. She drove in from the other side of town this morning, showed up at the house with a garment bag and a bottle of wine, and tears already forming.
She hasn’t left my side since. Her baby is about four months old now, fat-cheeked and drowsy. Leo keeps trying to show him things—a napkin, a bottle cap, and a fistful of cake he stole when nobody was watching.
“He’s going to be a great big brother,” Camilla says, watching Leo hold up his dinosaur coloring book to the baby’s face. “Whenthat happens.”
I take a sip of my drink and don’t answer that.
She bumps my shoulder. “You’re glowing.”
“That’s sweat. It’s eighty-five degrees.”
“You’re glowing, and I’m taking credit. I let you stay on my couch, and look where you ended up.”
She’s earned it. That couch, that cramped house, Tom’s polite discomfort—all of it led here. I squeeze her arm, and she squeezes back, and neither of us says anything else about it.
Crash lifts Leo off the ground and places him on his shoulders.
This is either the best or worst idea anyone has had tonight. Crash is two beers deep and doing laps around the common area with my son on top of him, and Leo has both fists locked in Crash’s hair and is steering him like a horse.
“Go!” Leo yells.
Crash moves left.
“No! Go!”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific on where I’m supposed to go, kid.”
Leo yanks his hair. Crash goes right, and Leo cheers.
Trapper is at the dessert table, loading a plate with a stack of cookies so tall it defies physics. He catches me looking and freezes.
“These are for the guys,” he explains.
“Really?”