Page 21 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

"Ryder..." I'm laughing, tears pricking my eyes. "You're skipping a few steps, aren't you?"

"Probably." He doesn't look sorry about it. "Is that a no?"

I look at the key in my palm. Such a small thing. Such a massive thing.

"It's a yes," I whisper. "It's absolutely a yes."

His smile breaks across his face like sunrise. He kisses me—deep and thorough and completely inappropriate for a back alley—and I kiss him back with everything I have.

When we finally break apart, both breathless, he takes my hand and leads me back inside.

The announcement isn't planned.

One minute we're walking back through the restaurant, and the next Ryder is pulling me into his arms in the middle of the dining room, kissing me in front of God and everyone.

The club erupts.

Cheers and wolf-whistles, Hammer's gruff "About damn time!" carrying over the noise as if he had no clue already. Jax is grinning like an idiot. Doc actually laughs out loud. And the women—Maddie, Eden, Rory—they're on their feet, clapping, pulling me into their circle the moment Ryder lets me go.

"Finally," Maddie says, hugging me tight. "We've been waiting forever for you two to figure it out."

"Welcome to the club," Eden adds, her eyes sparkling. "The 'fell for a Hellbound Saint' club. We have jackets."

"We don't have jackets," Rory corrects. "But we should. Mara, you're in charge of jackets."

I'm laughing and crying at the same time, surrounded by women who've become sisters, accepted into a family I never knew I needed. And across the room, Ryder watches me with so much love in his eyes that I can barely breathe.

This, I think. This is what I almost gave up. This is what Marco wanted for me.

A family. A future. A love that doesn't require me to bury myself alongside the dead.

The restaurant empties slowly, the night winding down in waves of goodbye hugs and promises to do this again soon. By midnight, it's just me and Ryder, chairs stacked on tables, the kitchen dark, the last candles flickering low.

We clean up together. Something domestic about it, easy and natural—like we've been doing this for years instead of days. He washes the wine glasses; I dry them. He sweeps the floor; I wipe down the bar. A rhythm we're learning, step by step.

"Can I ask you something?" I say, setting the last glass in its place.

"Anything."

"The guilt." I turn to face him, leaning against the bar. "Is it still there?"

He's quiet for a moment, the broom stilling in his hands. When he speaks, his voice is rough.

"Some of it. Maybe always will be." He sets the broom aside, crossing to stand in front of me. "But it's different now. Marco knew what he was doing when he made me promise to take care of you. He wasn't just asking me to protect you." His hand comes up to cup my face. "He was asking me to love you."

"And do you?" The question comes out barely a whisper. "Love me?"

"More than anything I've ever done in my life."

I kiss him. Soft and slow, tasting the truth on his lips.

When I pull back, I reach for my right hand. For the ring I've worn there for two years—Marco's ring, moved from my left hand to my right the day I buried him. A symbol of what was. A reminder of what I'd lost.

I slide it off.

Ryder watches, silent, as I pull a small velvet box from my purse—something I brought tonight, not knowing if I'd have the courage to use it. I place the ring inside, close the lid, tuck it away.

"I'll always honor what Marco and I had," I say. "But I'm ready to build something new."