Chapter 16
JOSIE
I’m curled up in the window seat, watching the sun sink behind Stoneheart mountain.
The sky’s putting on a show tonight—streaks of orange and pink bleeding into purple, the kind of sunset that makes you understand why people write poetry about this place.
Across the road I can see Andi and Hawk sitting on their porch, sipping beers and laughing. Trees cast long shadows across the street, and somewhere in the distance I can hear the faint rumble of bikes cruising through town.
It’s peaceful.
Down the hall, I’m hoping Isabel has managed to settle Lily for the night. She had a nightmare yesterday—I heard Isabel’s soft voice through the wall, soothing her back to sleep—and the circles under Isabel’s eyes this morning told me everything she wouldn’t say out loud.
They’re safe here. I know that. Stone’s made sure of it, and the club has eyes on the property around the clock. Isabel’s holding it together for Lily, but I see the cracks.
I should do more. I just don’t know what yet.
The last sliver of sun disappears behind the ridge, and the sky deepens to violet.
“Close your eyes.”
I raise an eyebrow at Stone, who’s standing in the doorway of our bedroom with an expression that’s trying very hard to be casual and failing miserably.
“Why?”
We’ve already spent the day in bed, so I have to assume that this is something sexual.
“Because I’m asking you to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
His mouth twitches. “Josie. Please close your eyes.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then the surprise is ruined, and I’ll have to find some other way to make you happy tonight.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Your choice.”
I study him—this man who runs an entire motorcycle club, who’s faced down cartels and corrupt developers, who can intimidate grown men with a single look. And here he is, practically fidgeting because he’s planned something and wants me to play along.
God, I love him.
“Fine.” I close my eyes dramatically. “But if you walk me into a wall, I’m billing you for the medical expenses.”
“Noted.”
His hand finds mine, warm and calloused, and he guides me out of the room.
I hear the creak of the hallway floorboards, feel the slight change in air temperature as we move through the clubhouse.
Somewhere in the distance, I can hear music playing—a soft and jazzy tune, not the usual rock that pounds through these walls.
“Where is everyone?” The clubhouse is never this quiet.
“Elsewhere.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He squeezes my hand. “Watch the step.”
I feel the threshold under my feet as we move from carpet to the wood of the deck. The air smells different here—candles, I think, and something savory that makes my stomach growl.
“Okay.” Stone’s voice is close to my ear, his breath warm against my neck. “Open.”
I open my eyes.
And promptly forget how to breathe.
The clubhouse’s back patio has been transformed.
String lights crisscross overhead, casting everything in a warm golden glow.
A table for two sits in the center, draped in an actual tablecloth—white linen, for God’s sake—with candles flickering in mason jars.
Beyond the railing, the sun is just starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
“Boone...” I turn to look at him, and the vulnerability in his expression nearly undoes me. “What is this?”
“A date.” He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s watching my reaction. “We’ve never actually had one. Seemed like an oversight.”
“We’ve been a little busy. What with the cartel trying to kill me and all.”
“Which is why I figured we were overdue.” He pulls out my chair with an old-fashioned gallantry that sets off a flutter in my chest. “Sit. Eat. Let me take care of you for once.”
I sit, still taking in the details. There are actual cloth napkins. Wine glasses that don’t look like they came from a gas station. A small vase with wildflowers that I suspect came from Ginger’s garden.
“Did you do all this yourself?”
“Maggie helped with the food. Ginger handled the flowers. The rest...” He settles into the chair across from me. “The rest was me.”
“The string lights?”
“YouTube tutorial. Only electrocuted myself twice.”
I laugh, and he grins—that rare, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.
“I’m impressed,” I admit. “I didn’t know you had a romantic bone in your body.”
“I have several. They’ve just been dormant for a while.” He reaches across the table, taking my hand. “You woke them up.”
“That’s either the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me, or a really weird medical condition.”
“Can’t it be both?”
Maggie appears from inside, carrying two plates with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times. She sets them down with a wink in my direction.
“Herb-crusted salmon, roasted vegetables, and garlic mashed potatoes,” she announces. “Don’t tell Duck I used the good butter.”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” Stone says.
“It better be. That man would put good butter on everything if I let him.” She pats Stone’s shoulder as she passes. “You kids have fun. I’ll bring dessert in an hour.”
She disappears back inside, and we’re alone.
The salmon is incredible—flaky and perfectly seasoned, the kind of meal I’d expect from a high-end restaurant, not a biker clubhouse. I tell Stone as much, and he shrugs.
“Maggie’s been cooking for the club for twenty years. She could have her own show if she wanted.”
“Why doesn’t she?”
“Because she likes cooking for family, not strangers.” He takes a sip of wine. “That’s what the club is to her. Family.”
“And what is it to you?”
The question comes out more serious than I intended. Stone sets down his glass, considering.
“Everything,” he says finally. “For a long time, it was the only family I had. The only place I belonged.” His eyes meet mine. “But now...”
“Now?”
“Now I’m starting to realize family can be more than just the club.” He reaches across the table again, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “It can be this. Us. Whatever we’re building.”
My throat tightens. “Boone...”
“I know I’m not good at this.” His voice is rough. “The romance, the feelings, the... talking about things. I spent fifteen years shutting all of that down. But with you...” He shakes his head. “With you, I want to try. I want to be the man you deserve.”
“You already are.”
“I’m working on it.” He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Every day, I’m working on it.”
We eat in comfortable silence after that, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. The sun sinks lower, the string lights growing brighter against the darkening sky. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls.
“It’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know about you.” I push my empty plate aside. Resting my hands on my fist.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Something from before the club. Before you became the Stone everyone knows.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But then he leans back in his chair, a distant look in his eyes.
“I wanted to be a teacher.”
Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t it. “A teacher?”
“History. I was obsessed with it as a kid—the Civil War, World War II, ancient Rome. I used to check out stacks of books from the library and read them under my covers with a flashlight.” A small smile plays at his lips.
“My mom caught me once at 2am reading about the Battle of Gettysburg. She was so mad she grounded me from the library for a week.”
“That’s adorable.”
“It was nerdy as hell.” He shrugs. “But I had this idea that I’d go to college, get a degree, come back here and teach at the high school. Make a difference, you know? Help kids see that history isn’t just dates and dead people—it’s stories. Human stories.”
“What happened?”
“Rebecca got pregnant. I was seventeen, she was sixteen, and suddenly college wasn’t in the cards anymore.” He meets my eyes. “I don’t regret it—my kids are the best thing I ever did. But sometimes I wonder what that other life would have looked like.”
“You could still do it,” I say. “Go back to school. It’s not too late.”
“Maybe.” But he doesn’t sound convinced. “Right now, I’ve got other priorities.”
“Like running a motorcycle club and taking down cartels?”
“Like making sure the woman I love knows how much she means to me.” He stands, extending his hand. “Dance with me.”
“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 his shoulders.
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.