Page 43 of The Biker and His Bride
Sun filtered through cracked stained-glass windows, painting dust motes in rainbow shards. I padded through scuffed hardwood rooms, seeing possibilities not problems—velvet lounges, antique chandeliers, claw-foot tubs facing sunrise. Rogue noticed the bowing joists, the termite tracks, the plumbing older than both of us combined.
“Money pit,” he muttered.
“Gold mine,” I corrected.
The price? Two hundred grand, as-is. Rogue talked Harris down to one-fifty over one plate of biscuits and a promise to preserve the historical plaque. We paid cash.
Deed in hand, I posted a single photo on Instagram—a sun-drenched shot of the filigree arch above Magnolia Manor’s doorway, captioned: *The next chapter begins.*
Within twenty-four hours, we had eighty pre-bookings.
Charleston’s boardwives flocked to my DMs: *Do you have a suite with a soaking tub? Could we host a charity brunch? Will your husband give tours?*
Rogue read them aloud at church meeting, laughter echoing off cinder-block walls. Pitbull flexed when he heard “boardwives.” Trigger asked if bellboys got tips or phone numbers.
“Both,” I said, filing the requests in a color-coded spreadsheet.
**StepTwo: Staff.**
Prospects doubled as demo crew, ripping out moldy drywall with gleeful swings of sledgehammers. Diesel handled permits. Nash oversaw security installing discreet cameras and state-of-the-art locks. Meadow’s cousin Poppy agreed to helm the kitchen—Southern fusion dishes plated like art. Meadow herself planned the spa menu—sea-salt scrubs, hot-stone massages, MC muscle on standby to refill water carafes.
I ordered robes stitched with *Magnolia & Throttle Inn* across the back—elegant script, tiny skull hidden in the ampersand. Rogue’s grin when he saw the proof almost outshone the diamonds he put on my finger.
**StepThree: Branding & Buzz.**
I posted progress reels: Pitbull in safety goggles knocking down a wall; Poppy tasting bourbon-glazed salmon; Rogue sanding reclaimed barn wood for the headboards. Each clip racked up more followers. A Charleston lifestyle influencer begged for an exclusive preview. Coastal Living reached out for a feature.
Rogue watched the numbers climb, arms folded across inked chest. “You’re a damn magician.”
“I just sell what’s real.”
He kissed my forehead. “Real is risky.”
“So is love,” I whispered.
His eyes softened. “Worth it.”
One afternoon,while the roofers hammered slate tiles and Diesel argued with the inspector about fire-code egress, Rogue found me in what would become the Honeysuckle Suite—turret room, three hundred sixty-degree windows, view of the oaks. I was pinning swatches—sea-glass blue, cream linen—onto a vision board.
“Need a break?” he asked.
I wiped paint from my cheek. “Can’t stop. Deadline’s three months.”
He circled behind me, palms sliding down my arms, breath warm on my neck. “Got a surprise.”
I turned. He held up a tiny leather vest—cut no larger than a paperback, stitched with a patch that read BADASS TODDLER. My heart stuttered.
“Logan…”
“Prospect made it,” he said roughly. “Just in case.”
Emotion flooded me—hope, fear, joy. I pressed the vest to my chest. “We don’t even know if?—”
His hand covered my lower belly. “Hope’s enough.”
Tears blurred the room. He kissed them away.
“Now take a break,” he murmured. “Prospects can paint for an hour.”
