Phoenix:
I didn’t give a damn about the flowers. I couldn’t care less if the linens were ivory or bone or whatever the hell Shay kept texting me about at all hours. Let them fuss about the playlist, about the signature drinks, about whether the napkins should be folded into roses or knives. They could have it. Every detail of the wedding could be theirs to wrangle, and I wouldn't bat an eyelash.
Because I only cared about this.
Her.
The bike. My gift to Ryder.
I’d been building her in secret for weeks, my fingers stained with oil and primer, my knuckles scabbed from slipping on bolts in the early hours of the morning. Every spare second I wasn’t with him, I was here—in the back of the shop, doors locked, blinds drawn. I’d even bribed dad to keep Ryder distracted, sending him out for r
