Page 61 of Drift
I raised a brow. “A party?”
“You didn’t think I was letting today end without one, did you?” He smirked. “Prospects are getting the clubhouse set up for us.”
My heart was full as I whispered, “You really planned a graduation party for me?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“It’s not like he did it all by himself,” Jaxton muttered. “I helped.”
“So did I,” Lark chimed in.
“They did.” Chance’s voice lowered just enough for only me to hear. “But we’ll have a private celebration later tonight, after Waverly goes down. Watching you walk across that stage did something to me.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” His gaze dropped to the ring gleaming on my hand. “Made me think it was time to put another baby in you.”
Some women got flowers for graduation. I got another baby and one hell of a happily ever after.
EPILOGUE
DRIFT
Itwisted the wrench one more time, then dropped it back in the toolbox. The matte black Harley I was crouched in front of was ready to ride once more.
Small boots scuffed against the gravel behind me.
“Daddy,” came the little voice, sweet as honey and twice as dangerous. “Can we go for a ride?”
I turned, and there she was, Waverly—my five-year-old whirlwind in denim shorts, scuffed boots, and a tiny leather jacket that Jax swore he hadn’t custom-stitched even though his smug grin said otherwise. Her hair, dark like mine but shot through with Alanna’s soft waves, was pulled into a crooked braid that listed to one side. Big gray eyes, same as her mama’s, sparkled up at me.
I turned toward her and rested my forearms on my knees. “You sure you’re ready for that, princess?”
She nodded with so much conviction it nearly knocked her braid loose. “I’m five.”
She held up her fingers to emphasize her point.
“Five, huh?” I drawled, pretending to think. “Pretty big number.”
“Big enough for a ride.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic.
“All right.” I stood and brushed dust off my jeans. “Let’s see what we can do.”
She squealed and raced toward the row of bikes lined up in the shade, all gleaming steel, some shiny, some matte. A few vintage rebuilds and my newest ride, plus the matte black Harley I’d have until the day I died. I followed at an easier pace, the heat pressing down and the sound of waves faint beyond the house.
I stopped beside one of the smaller cruisers—a custom build I’d stripped down and rebuilt just for safety drills. No open pipes, lower torque, tight frame. The perfect choice for a kid’s first slow ride around the lot.
“Here we go.” I patted the seat. “This one’s a good starter.”
But she didn’t even look at it. Her eyes had locked on the bike parked two spots down—the old matte black beast with its worn leather seat and the faint scuff where Alanna’s boot had once rubbed the paint. Her bike. The one that had carried us both through fire and back.
She pointed. “I wanna ride that one.”
My chest tightened. “No, baby. Not that one.”
Her mouth pursed into a cute little pout. “But why? That one’s prettier.”
