“There’s no music.”
“There’s music.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, and suddenly soft jazz is floating through the air—Coltrane, if I’m not mistaken. “I came prepared.”
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet. His arms wrap around me, one hand at the small of my back, the other holding mine against his chest. We sway together, not really dancing, just moving.
“I never took you for a jazz man,” I murmur against his shoulder.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet.” His lips brush my temple. “I’m looking forward to showing you all of it.”
“Even the embarrassing stuff?”
“Especially the embarrassing stuff.” He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “I want you to know all of me, Josie. The good, the bad, the history-nerd kid who never got to chase his dreams. All of it.”
“I want that too.” I rise on my toes to kiss him—soft, sweet, full of promise. “Every piece of you, Boone Armstrong. I want it all.”
We finish our kiss and he pulls me back into him, holding me close as we slowly sway.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into him.
This is the part that still catches me off guard. Not the danger—I knew what I was getting into the day I walked into that clubhouse. The late-night calls, the violence that hums beneath the surface, the weight of command that never fully leaves hisshoulders. I’ve seen him stare down threats that would make lesser men crumble. I’ve watched him make decisions that live in moral gray areas I once thought I’d never accept.
But this? The jazz. The candlelight. The way he holds me, swaying in our bedroom like we’re the only two people in the world.
This is the part no one else sees.
The MC gets the president—granite jaw, iron will, a man who’d burn the world down to protect his people. But I getthis. The man who remembers that I mentioned Coltrane once, weeks ago. Who plans romantic gestures.
Two halves of the same man. Dangerous and tender.
I used to think those things couldn’t coexist. That men like Stone were one thing all the way through—that the darkness would eventually swallow everything else. But I was wrong. He’s not dark pretending to be light, or light pretending to be dark. He’s both, fully and unapologetically, and somehow that makes him the safest place I’ve ever known.
We dance until the candles burn low and Maggie brings out chocolate cake that’s so rich I moan with the first bite. We talk about everything and nothing—his favorite books (historical fiction, naturally), my guilty pleasure TV shows (trashy reality dating competitions), the places we’ve always wanted to visit (he says Ireland; I say Greece).
By the time we make our way back inside, I’m full and warm and so stupidly happy I could cry.
“Thank you,” I tell him at the door to our room. “For tonight. For all of it.”
“Thank you for letting me try.” He cups my face in his hands. “I know I’m not perfect at this. But I’m going to keep trying. Every day.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He kisses me then—slow and deep and full of everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t. And when he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with want.
“I believe I promised you dessert,” he murmurs.
“I already had cake.”
“I wasn’t talking about cake.”
He pulls me into the room and closes the door behind us.
STONE
I wake to the smell of bacon.
For a moment, I just lie there, trying to remember the last time someone cooked breakfast for me. Maggie makes food for the club, sure, but that’s different. That’s communal, impersonal. This smells like someone is specifically making breakfast forme.
The bed beside me is empty but still warm. Josie hasn’t been gone long.
