Chapter 22
?
— Colt —
I’d faced down rival MCs, stared death in the face more times than I could count, and walked through fire for my club.
None of that had prepared me for standing on Betty’s porch in a button-down shirt, holding a bouquet of daisies, waiting to take my own wife on a date.
Ex-wife, some old reflex said. Seven years of calling her that—in my head, on paper, in the dark when I couldn’t stop thinking about her walking away.
But the divorce was a fraud. Based on a lie. Signatures forged while she was unconscious in a hospital bed, under a name that wasn’t even hers. It was a document Death’s Head had fast-tracked to keep me from looking for her, and it had worked.
She was my wife. Had been the whole time. Didn’t care what a piece of paper said. Didn’t need a piece of paper to claim her.
I’d been taking it slow all the same. Weeks of showing up, keeping my hands to myself, letting her set the pace.
The boys needed stable. She needed time.
I’d told myself that every day until Dutch called me into his office this morning on some bullshit pretense about the Louisville contracts and then looked at me the way he looked at prospects who’d fucked up.
“You’re taking Lilac to dinner tonight.”
I’d opened my mouth. “She’s got amnesia. I don’t want to push. The boys—”
“Indira and I will take the boys.” He’d spread his hands. “Betty says there’s no medical reason you two can’t have a conversation without six-year-olds in the room. Lilac might not have her memory, but those boys need parents who talk to each other.”
“We talk all the time.”
Dutch had grinned. “Talk talk.”
I hadn’t had a response to that.
“I ain’t asking,” he’d said. “I’m telling you. You’re picking her up at seven. You got a problem with that, take it up with Indira.”
The door had cracked open. Indira leaned in, already shaking her head.
“Nope. Not up for discussion. Seven o’clock.”
Then the door closed.
I’d looked at Dutch. He was already back to the contracts.
“She has a new fancy dress that Indira bought for her after she noticed her eyeing it up last weekend,” he said, not looking up. “In case you were wondering what kind of restaurant to make a reservation for.”
So here I was. Button-down shirt. Daisies. Betty’s porch.
The door opened and I stood there like an idiot.
Lilac was wearing a deep purple dress that hugged her curves and fell just above her knees. Her hair was down, loose waves I hadn’t seen since before—since a different life in Texas. She’d put on lipstick. Something deep and dark that made my mouth go dry.
For weeks I’d seen her in soft, worn things: cardigans, jeans with grass stains from the yard, her hair pulled back while she helped our boys with homework. I’d learned to want her in those too, had trained myself not to reach every time she passed close enough to touch.
But this. This was something else entirely. This was the woman I married, looking at me like she wasn’t sure what to do with me.
“Hi.” Her voice was soft, almost shy.
“You look…” I had to clear my throat. The word beautiful felt insufficient. Embarrassingly insufficient. “I don’t have the right word for it.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “Indira said I needed something that wasn’t covered in paint or playground dirt to remind myself who I was.”
“Remind me to thank her.” I held out the daisies. “These are for you. I remember—” I caught myself. “I thought you might like them.”
She reached for the flowers and our fingers almost touched at the stems—a near-miss, her hand brushing the edge of mine. She didn’t seem to notice.
I wanted to close my hand around hers.
“They’re my favorite. How did you know?”
Because you told me on our third date. Because I brought them to you every time I came home from a run, every birthday, every anniversary.
“Some things haven’t changed,” I said instead.
She smiled, small and private, like she was filing the moment away somewhere. I’d seen that smile before. I’d been trying to get her to smile at me like that again for weeks.
“Shall we?”
“One second.” She held up a finger, already turning back. “I need to put these in water or they’ll be dead by the time we get home.”
She disappeared inside. I heard Betty say something, and Lilac laugh—quick and light—and then she was back, empty-handed, a little flushed.
I held the porch door open and let her walk past me. Her shoulder passed an inch from my chest and I stood very still until I trusted myself to move.
?
The restaurant wasn’t fancy—just a quiet Italian place on the edge of town, the kind with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles.
I’d chosen it specifically because it wasn’t a club hangout.
Tonight, I wasn’t the VP of Venom Riders.
I was just Colt, trying to convince the woman across from me to give me a chance.
“So.” Lilac fiddled with her napkin, avoiding my eyes. “This is weird, right? It’s not just me?”
“It’s definitely weird.” I couldn’t help the small smile. “We’ve been married for almost a decade, have two kids together, and I’m nervous like it’s a first date.”
She caught it. I saw it in the slight pause, the way her eyes came back to mine. “Were married.”
I set down my glass. “I’m not so sure about that.”
She went still. “The divorce—”
“Was signed while you were in a coma.” I kept my voice level. “You never agreed to it—you couldn’t have. It wasn’t legal.” I watched her take that in. “Which means, technically, we still are.”
Silence. She looked at me carefully, like she was deciding whether to be angry.
“I’m not saying it to put anything on you,” I said. “You get to decide what it means. I just—you asked why this was weird. That’s why. Because as far as I’m concerned, we’re still married and yet I still feel like I’m on a first date.”
“It kind of is. A first date. For me, anyway.” She met my gaze. “I don’t remember anything before seven years ago. Every day with you is a first.”
The reminder landed, but I kept my expression steady. “Then let’s make them good firsts.”
The waiter came and we ordered. She chose the pasta primavera, and I watched her eyes light up when she tasted it.
“This is amazing.” She twirled another forkful. “I can’t remember the last time I ate somewhere that wasn’t cooked by me or Betty.”
“Life with twin boys doesn’t leave much time for fancy dinners?”
“Life with twin boys doesn’t leave much time for anything.” But she was smiling. “Don’t get me wrong, I love them more than anything. But sometimes I forget that I’m a person separate from being their mama.”
“You’re a lot of things.” I set down my fork, giving her my full attention. “You’re their mama, yeah. But you’re also smart and stubborn and braver than anyone I’ve ever met. You survived something that should have killed you, raised two boys completely alone, built a whole life from nothing.”
“I had Betty. And Graham.”
“Still, you did most of it yourself.” I leaned forward. “That’s who you are, Lilac. A survivor. A fighter. You just don’t see it because you’re too busy doing it to step back and look.”
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching my face. “You really believe that?”
“I’ve always believed that. Even before—” I stopped, not wanting to bring up the past that she couldn’t remember. “You’re the strongest person I know. That hasn’t changed.”
Lilac reached across the table and touched my hand. Just a brush of fingers across my knuckles, barely there.
I didn’t move. Neither did she, for a long moment—her fingertips resting on the back of my hand, both of us looking at the contact like it was something that had happened to us rather than something we’d done.
I watched her face: the small furrow between her brows, the way her eyes went soft and uncertain.
Then she pulled back.
I let her. I turned my hand over under the table and pressed it flat against my thigh and said nothing.
“Thank you,” she said. “For seeing me like that. Most people just see a single mom.”
“Most people are idiots.”
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine. God, I’d missed that sound. Missed the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the way her whole face lit up.
“You’re staring,” she said, a blush creeping up her cheeks.
I wasn’t about to apologize. “Can you blame me?”
Her blush deepened, and she looked down at her plate, but she was smiling.