The silence that follows is thick, but not tense. I feel the shift in his muscles, the way his chest expands against mine with a deep, considering breath. Then, that same rumbling sound, this time laced with clear, deep satisfaction, echoes from his throat. “A date,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. His hand slides up my back, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. “Yeah, angel. We can have a date.”
His agreement is all the permission my excitement needs. I nod vigorously, my cheek rubbing against the ends of his beard. “Good,” is all I can manage to say, the word muffled by his skin.
He chuckles, and his hold tightens. One hand slides down from my hair, his palm skating over the cotton covering my shoulder, down the curve of my arm, coming to rest on the smallof my back, pressing me even closer until not a sliver of space remains between us. In here, there is only his heat, his scent, the steady, thunderous beat of his heart under my ear, and the slow trace of his hand against my body, memorizing something he has told me countless times is his.
As his lips find mine in the comforting darkness, the promise of tomorrow already feels like it’s begun.
Tonight’s dreams are going to be full of what-ifs when it comes to making up my mind of where to go. As long as I’m with him, I’m happy to go anywhere.
* * *
Epilogue
The late summer air is thick with the scent of sun-warmed grass and a blanket of surrounding pine needles that settles over the clubhouse grounds. I sway gently in the hammock, a slow, pendulum rhythm that matches the beat of my own contented heart. Thanks to Eliza, she’s convinced Ghost to order a few of these to sunbathe.
The men here don’t have any issue with their women laying out to warm their skin. No doubt about that.
The ropes creak a soft, familiar song, a sound that has become the soundtrack to my peace. Above me, the sky is a deep, endless blue, but my gaze isn’t fixed on the heavens. It’s on my hand, held up against that clear canvas, where a band of platinum and diamond catches the light, fracturing it into a dozen tiny rainbows.
Penelope Foster.
The name still rings in my soul, a quiet, joyous chime. After all those years of being dead to the world, of erasing the girl I was, Hex’s deft fingers in the digital world didn’t just forge mea fake identity. She helped Judge make a marriage certificate possible.
A burst of laughter pulls my attention from the sparkle on my finger. My head lolls to the side, my cheek pressing against the woven rope, and I take in the view. There, in the heart of the garage, surrounded by gleaming chrome and the guts of a half-reassembled Harley, is my husband.
Myhusband.
The word is a warm stone in my chest, radiating heat through my entire body. We’ve been back from our honeymoon for less than a week—two stolen weeks in a cabin on the other side of the state with no address and no noise except for the wind in the pines and the sound of our own breathing. Judge, true to form, slid back into his role as President like he’d never left, but today feels different. He’s not presiding over a table laden with maps and tensions. He’s just one of the guys, a grease stain on his jeans and a wrench in his hand, holding court while they work.
He’s telling them about our trip. I can’t hear the specifics from here, but I see the broad, animated gestures as he describes the lake we found, the sheer face of the mountain behind our cabin.
Ripper’s cocky, making sure to remind everyone that it was his idea. From Judge’s eyeroll, I can only imagine what he’s thinking.
I roll the ring around my finger, the metal cool against my skin. I’m content to just watch him, to trace the familiar lines of his broad back, the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the intense focus on his face even when he’s just telling a story.
A soft hum vibrates in my throat, a tuneless melody of pure happiness. I let my eyes fall shut, soaking in the sun, the sounds of tree branches swaying. Everything feels right as it should be. If I stay like this, I’ll fall asleep in a matter of minutes and risk more than a simple tan.
Breathing in deeply, a new scent hits me up close. Motor oil.
The talking has stopped. I blink my eyes open, the world swimming back into focus, and find the reason for the sudden silence. He’s right here.
Judge stands over me, his frame blocking the sun, casting me in a welcome, protective shadow. He’s wiping his hands meticulously on a dark rag, but his eyes aren’t on the grease. They’re drinking me in, tracing the line of my leg draped over the side of the hammock, the way my hair fans out beneath me, the surely silly, lovesick smile I can’t seem to wipe off my face.
“Hey, you,” he rumbles, his voice a low thrum that I feel more than hear. “You just gonna lie there all day, looking like a dream?”
“I was planning on it,” I sigh, stretching lazily, making the hammock sway more violently. “The view is so much better from here.”
He knows I’m not talking about the sky. A small, hesitant smile plays on his lips. He’s a President, a force of nature, but at this moment, he’s just a man who wants to be near his wife. He glances back at the bike, then at me, the conflict endearing.
“You got room for me in there, then?” he asks, nodding toward the precarious nest of rope and me.
I laugh, the sound easy and light. “Absolutely not. This hammock and I have a very understanding relationship. It holds me, and I don’t test its limits. You are the very definition of a limit.”
“Worth a shot,” he grins, that cheeky, boyish grin that undoes me every time. He makes a show of leaning in, one hand coming down on the rope near my hip, pretending to try and climb in. The hammock jerks, and I let out a half-genuine, half-theatrical shriek, clutching the sides.
“Judge!”
He just laughs, pulling back before we both end up in a heap on the grass. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, full of mischief and adoration. He reaches out, his now-clean hand brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, his touch impossibly gentle.
