Page 22 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

Ryder reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring of his own. Simple. Silver. A band that catches the candlelight and glows.

"This isn't a proposal," he says, taking my left hand. "Not yet. When you're ready, I'll ask properly—down on one knee, the whole thing." He slides the band onto my finger, and it fits like it was made for me. "But for now, this is me saying I'm not going anywhere. This is my promise. To you. To us. To the future we're going to build together."

"I'm not going anywhere either," I tell him. "That's my promise."

He kisses me again—longer this time, deeper—and when we finally break apart, the candles have burned down to nothing and the restaurant is dark except for the streetlight filtering through the windows.

"Come on," he says, taking my hand. "Let's go home."

His bike is parked outside, the way it always is. Chrome and leather and the rumble of an engine that sounds like freedom.

But this time, when I climb on behind him, it's not because I'm running. It's because I'm choosing. Choosing him. Choosing us. Choosing this.

"Where to?" he asks, the engine purring beneath us.

I wrap my arms around his waist, press my cheek against his back, feel the steady beat of his heart through his leather cut.

"Home," I say. "Take me home."

We ride off into the night, and I think about everything that led us here. Seven years of wanting. Two years of grief. A confession that almost came too late.

For seven years, I loved a man from a distance and married another. For two years, I buried myself in guilt and grief, convinced I didn't deserve happiness. And now?

Now I'm finally free.

Not free from the past—but free to choose my future.

And I choose him. I choose us. I choose this.

Forever.