He didn’t give that first fuck if he did this rich or poor. He didn’t care if he did it in Denver, where he’d grown up, or in Alaska, or on the moon. He’d liked school but when it was done, he was done with it. He didn’t want to play a corporate game. He didn’t want to face a life of monotony. And he made it so he had none of that. He just wanted family, his bike, his brothers, solid and steady.

But most important, he wanted a world where his woman looked him in the eyes when he asked her to be close to him, close to the man who wanted what many would consider as limits that were all of that, not riches in the bank, not vacations in Tuscany, just whatever life led them to, and her answer was, Absolutely.

He’d found it in Rosalie.

He had it in his home, in his bed, on the back of his bike.

It was a miracle, quiet and true and constant.

And no matter what he had to do to keep it…

He was not ever going to let it go.

“Snap?”

“Yup?”

She was lying on him.

It was after lunch at Las Delicias with their crew. After he and Shy went back to the condo to finish with the cupboards and the women went where women went to work off burritos (in Rosie and Tabby’s case, the mall). After he’d come home and showered and ate dinner with Rosalie then took her out for a ride in the early summer waning sun. After they’d returned home, got beers and stretched out on the couch, him with his book, her with hers that he’d noticed she was not reading, but he didn’t think much of it. When she had a book of her own, her mind wandered often, but he could tell by the look on her face when it did, her reflections never took her anywhere she didn’t want to be.

“You never said what you thought of the name Hermione.”

He felt his body tense.

This happened right before it shook uncontrollably because he burst out laughing.

When he got some control over it, if not a lot, he saw her smiling down at him.

It was then he realized a promise he made her he was not keeping.

He’d told her that he was going to get her to a time in her life when she’d spend a lot of it laughing.

So far this hadn’t happened.

Instead, she’d gotten him to a time in his life where he did that, no…she gave him that, and when she did, she just watched him, happy and smiling.

He again vowed to himself to do what he could to give that back.

But he had a feeling they both were totally down with the way it turned out.

When he finally got control of his humor, he lifted his brows and asked softly, his arm around her going tight, “You thinkin’ about babies, baby?”

“Would that freak you?” she asked back.

“Fuck no,” he answered firmly.

And earned another smile.

“Two for you too, or…?” she prompted.

“As many as you want, I’ll give you,” he replied.

The smile he got from that was seriously sweet in ways he felt the urge to do something about it.

“Rosie, Cotton’s up to some serious shit. You need to let me finish this,” he declared. “Then I’ll spend time finishing you.”

She turned her gaze to his book. “I’m always losing you to Steve Berry.”

“The man puts one book out a year,” he informed her.

She looked back to him but dipped her head sideways to his book. “How many times have you read that one?”

“Three.”

And it finally came.

Her body moving on him with her laughter.

Still doing it, she propped her book up on his chest and ordered, “Finish your chapter.” Her attention turned to her own pages. “Then you can finish me.”

Snap also returned his attention to his book.

And he never read so fast in his life.

Snapper was behind the bar at the Chaos Compound.

They had three new recruits who he could press into service, as was their duty, but he was playing bartender like he often played bartender—definitely since the shit with Valenzuela started—doing it keeping an eye on his brothers.

And now Rosalie.

She was on the couch in the corner with Speck, a Corona in her hand, a smile on her face.

Her mass of thick dark hair, her slim figure, her long legs, her pretty face, those warm hazel eyes, that fucking smile…

Yeah, he’d caught hold of a miracle.

Whatever they were talking about made Speck feel good and loose, in their own little world the only way Rosalie could give a man, though with obvious differences for Speck.

She had this knack, brother, old lady or biker groupie. Rosie was not one to slam tequila shots, get loud, move straight to crazy, then come on strong so he had no choice but to mostly fuck her against a wall on a trajectory to his room.

Quiet communion was where Rosie was at.

And if she wanted his dick, all she had to do was give him that look. The one she had that had two versions. And depending on the version, Snap could gauge where it was as to where they would go with it. If it was urgent, he’d get her ass to his room in the back of the Compound so he didn’t make her wait to give her what she wanted. If it wasn’t, he’d get her ass home.

He tore his eyes from Rosie and scanned the bar.

Boz was sitting a stool, pounding tequila shooters. Rough count, so far he’d had seven.