She indicated her short skirt. “That’s why I changed wedding dresses. Much easier to ride a bike in.”
She was my dream woman.
As Fiona said long goodbyes to her family, I wrapped Pop in a big bear hug. His courthouse wedding to Angela had been the cutest damn thing in the world, and the grumpy bastard wasn’t even that grumpy anymore.
“I’m real happy for ya, Maxy,” he said, clearing his throat. “You make me so proud. You and Fiona, you got something special, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” I said. “Thank you for believing in us this whole time. And for throwing the best fucking spontaneous wedding party ever.”
“For my son? Anything,” he said. “We’re a team.”
“Always.” I hugged him again, in the same diner where he’d sat here, eighteen months ago, and asked me to help him send a message to a woman online named Angela.
At the same diner where he’d worried, in his own Pop way, that I’d never find this kind of love in my life. My father didn’t hide his tears of joy during our ceremony.
I’d cried at his and Angela’s wedding too.
A few minutes and a few more hugs later, Fiona and I finally walked through the doors of the diner, onto the streets of New York City. Holding hands, we walked to my bike, which had a small sign on the back that said Just Fucking Married. All around us, the city was waking up, people rushing to the subway, their jobs, walking their dogs. The leaves on the trees were changing colors. Fiona shivered slightly in the November chill, so I pulled her against me, keeping her warm.
I tilted my wife’s chin up, gazed in her bright green eyes. “I wish we’d just gotten married the first night we met.”
She laughed. “I agree. This whole getting married thing is way too much fun. And I have to say, you cut a fine figure in a tailored suit.”
“Fancy, huh?”
She pressed a soft kiss to my lips. “I like you just the way you are.”
“And I really like this dress.”
“How else will we fulfill our motorcycle fantasy… again?”
I held her close, tucking my chin on top of her head. We stayed like that for a second, hugging and swaying together.
Two newlyweds, about to set off on their next adventure.
“You ready for a ride, princess?”
Her smirk was priceless. “I was born ready.”
And as Fiona and I roared down the road, towards our destiny, I knew I was the luckiest guy in the whole damn world.
Want more Max and Fiona?
Pre-Epilogue, Max and Fiona are about to embark on a twenty-day road trip on their motorcycles together, traveling from L.A. back to NYC. Click the link for the bonus epilogue and follow Fiona and her anti-Prince Charming as they swoon their way across the country on their epic road trip!
TAP HERE: To check out this bonus scene!
A Note from the Author
Dear reader,
Thank you for reading Fiona and Max’s swoony love story! Readers have been asking for a book about Fiona Quinn since they first met her as Roxy’s sister in Strictly Professional. When she first came to life on the page, I was instantly enamored with this delicate, graceful beauty in a pink pantsuit (who cursed like a sailor and danced like a punk). Sitting down to write Not the Marrying Kind, I wasn’t at all nervous to capture her voice. She’d been with me since the summer of 2018, when I was first drafting Strictly Professional. And like a typical Quinn, she came hurtling through my brain, kicking and singing. I think many of us can relate to Fiona’s journey, of charting a new path for ourselves while trying to reconcile the person we once had been. I loved watching her learn that her joy did not need to be linear or quantifiable – and that embracing her authentic self was the key to her own happiness.
Of course, I had to pair Fiona with Max Devlin – the cocky bad boy who never plans because life is too much damn fun. Writing Max was such a fucking treat. I didn’t mean to make him such a secretly romantic softie, but suddenly there he was, smelling Fiona’s hair and picking her flowers and worried about his love-sick symptoms. I loved his easy confidence, his earnest affection, and (of course) his dirty mouth. And who knew Pop (and Angela!!) would worm his way into my heart with his gruff (but secretly sweet) ways? The scene where Max and Fiona help Pop through his first date nerves at Central Park is, hands down, one of my favorite things I’ve ever written.
My other favorite scenes to write in this book: Max seeing Fiona dancing to The Clash, Edward and Roxy installing their sex swing, the Quinn sisters stage-diving, wedding dress shopping with Roxy, the hot-sex-simulation on the motorcycle, the spontaneous proposal/wedding and of course that first kiss. Every time I got to the part where Max goes “hey any of you guys know what to wear on a first date?” I got goosebumps.
This book ended up being my love letter to live music – which is my family’s actual number one thing to do together. Like the Quinn’s, my parents are true music lovers, and would bring my brother and I to concerts starting at a young age. I don’t usually write to music, but this book had a strong and influential soundtrack that I’m sure was obvious while reading! Every song mentioned in this book was a) a personal favorite and b) played on repeat while writing that scene. Click here to access the Spotify playlist (it’s called I Don’t Think We’re Just Friends)
Movie and music buffs will notice that this book is also a love letter to Empire Records. The plight of The Red Room was based almost exclusively on what happened to the real-life CBGB (the true heart of punk rock and new wave in NYC).
As the Quinn family would say: go chase some joy (and don’t give a shit).
Or as Max would say: go make some really good bad decisions.
Love,
Kathryn
Strictly Professional (Preview Chapter)
Roxy and Edward’s deliciously dirty love story is told in my romance novel STRICTLY PROFESSIONAL, which is free in KU. And if you need to be tempted, please enjoy this preview chapter:
ROXY
It was nearing midnight, and the slightly shabby tattoo parlor that I owned was dead yet again.
Outside, the new sign I’d installed six months ago flashed, cheerfully soldiering on even though half the bulbs were burned out. It was supposed to say ‘Roxy’s’, but the mismatched bulbs made the sign look like ancient runes instead of letters.
We were dead, and that was a problem. The second problem was the chart I was staring at.
“Tell me what these squiggles mean,” Mack said, sitting on a bar stool with a cup of chamomile tea. Mack, short for ‘Machete,’ was one of my oldest friends. He was huge, white, bald man. Tattoos covered every spare inch of his body, including his face. He gave off a terrifying first impression, until you got to know him and he started talking to you about the importance of yoga and meditation.
“Well,” I said with a sigh. “This squiggle is revenue. This one is profit. This one is expenses.”
Mack rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and pointed to the ‘profit’ line. “Then shouldn’t this squiggle be higher?”