"Mama! Uncle Bull-Bull brought cookies.” His green eyes, mirror images of mine, sparkle with excitement.
I glance up to see Bulldog standing in the doorway of my art studio, looking sheepish while holding a bakery box. Behind him, one-year-old Isabella toddles on unsteady legs, her chubby hands reaching for his massive boots.
"Sorry, Cami," he rumbles, his voice gentler than it was three years ago. "Tried to keep 'em quiet, but Mason here has the stealth skills of a freight train."
I laugh, scooping up Isabella before she face-plants into Bulldog's steel-toed boot. "It's okay. I was just finishing up this commission anyway."
Bulldog—who the kids call him Uncle Bull-Bull, much to everyone's amusement—has become one of my children's favorite people. The man who once terrified me with his aggressive posture and crude comments transformed completely after meeting his old lady, Sarah, a kindergartenteacher who loves him fiercely. Now he's the uncle who brings cookies, builds blanket forts, and reads bedtime stories in his gravelly voice that somehow makes even Goldilocks sound like an action hero.
"Whatcha working on?" he asks, nodding toward my easel.
"Custom piece for a collector. 1967 Shovelhead, fully restored." I shift Isabella to my hip, admiring the intricate details I've spent weeks perfecting. "Should be able to finish it tomorrow."
My art business has exploded beyond my wildest dreams. What started as Jigsaw connecting me with one buyer turned into a waiting list six months long. Custom motorcycle portraits, technical drawings for restoration shops, even some gallery pieces featuring the raw beauty of bike culture. The money is good—really good—but more than that, I get to create art every day while surrounded by the family I never thought I'd have.
"Mason, sweetheart, go wash your hands before you touch those cookies," I tell my son, who's already eyeing the bakery box like it contains buried treasure.
"I'll take 'em," Bulldog offers, scooping up Mason with one massive hand while keeping the cookies safely out of reach with the other. "Come on, little man. Let's see if Aunt Trix has some milk to go with these."
"Can we have chocolate milk?" Mason asks hopefully.
"We'll negotiate," Bulldog grins, carrying my son toward the kitchen.
I follow, Isabella babbling happily in my arms. The clubhouse buzzes with its usual afternoon energy—Trix wiping down the bar while chatting with Diesel, Steel and Lizzie huddled over paperwork at a corner table, prospects cleaning motorcycles outside.
This place has become the center of everything good in my life.
"There's my beautiful girls," Rhett's voice rumbles from behind me.
I turn to find him striding through the front door. Isabella squeals with delight and holds her arms out toward her daddy.
"Hey there, princess," he murmurs, taking her from me and pressing kisses to her chubby cheeks until she giggles. His eyes find mine, and even after three years, the heat in his gaze still makes my stomach flutter. "How was your day?"
"Good. Productive." I rise on my toes to kiss him. "Yours?"
"Better now." His free arm wraps around my waist, pulling me close enough that I can feel the solid warmth of his chest. "Where's my boy?"
"Kitchen with Uncle Bull-Bull, probably negotiating cookie terms."
Rhett chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Kid's got good instincts. Never accept the first offer."
"Speaking of negotiations," I lower my voice, glancing around to make sure little ears aren't listening, "Lizzie's offered to watch the kids tonight."
His eyes darken immediately. "Is that so?"
"Mmhmm. Thought maybe we could have dinner somewhere that doesn't serve chicken nuggets and then come back here for some...alone time."
"Angel," his voice drops to that gravelly whisper that still makes my knees weak, "you don't have to ask twice."
Hours later, after dinner at a quiet restaurant where we could actually finish sentences without interruption, we slip back into our room while Lizzie entertains the kids with a Disney movie in the common room.
Rhett's hands are on me before the door fully closes, fingers threading through my hair as he backs me against the wood. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's hungry, desperate, like he's been starving for this all day.
"Missed you," he murmurs against my lips, his hands already working at the buttons of my blouse.
"You saw me this morning," I tease, but my breath catches as his mouth trails down my neck.
"Not the same." His teeth graze my pulse point. "I need time with just you. Just us."
