She did. But not before hissing that she’d find out everything about Ghost, and ruin him.
Fear curls in my stomach. Murphy notices.
He grunts. "If she messes with you, you call your man. Or his club brothers. Those boys might look rough, but they’d take a bullet for people they care about. You make those stuffed toys for the orphans they ride for. That means something."
"Not many know about those toys. And I don’t want to drag him or them into my family mess," I protest. "I’m no one to them."
"They’re men," he says, winking. "They like being dragged in if it means protecting a pretty girl."
He lifts his chin. "Looks like you’ve got a guest."
I glance up and nearly drop the tray of cupcakes.
Ghost stands in the doorway of Wild Petals, filling it. His shoulders brush the frame. He’s not in his cut this morning, just a plain black tee that clings to his chest and dark jeans that do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs.
My heart stutters. A slow, heated thrum starts low in my belly and spreads like warm honey. My skin feels too tight, my breath too shallow. I shouldn’t be reacting this way over a man I barely know, but my body doesn’t care. Every inch of him is a reminder of that kiss, of how solid he felt under my hands. Howsafe.
The gray at his temples glints in the soft morning light. His eyes find me instantly and soften.
"Nya," he says, like my name is a prayer.
"Ghost," I breathe, suddenly aware of the flour on my apron, the honey on my fingers, and the tangle of my bun. I probably smell like stew, roses, and panic.
Murphy chuckles and wipes his hands on his apron. "Speak of the devil. Morning, Ghost."
"Murph," Ghost replies with a respectful nod. Then he turns to me.
"Can we talk?"
My pulse skitters. "I’m helping Murphy," I squeak.
Wild Petals is small and eclectic, packed with succulents, wildflower buckets, and shelves of soaps and candles. People wander in all day to browse or gossip.
Ghost’s mouth curves. "So I’ll wait."
He reaches out and plucks a blooming tea rose from a bucket.
"How much?"
Murphy nudges me toward the shop and I go.
"It’s on the house," I say quickly. "Unless you want a whole bouquet."
My words tumble over themselves. My hands, usually calm and practiced, fumble with ribbon and shears. Ghost twirls the rose between his fingers.
"Just this," he says. But instead of keeping it, he hands it to me. "For you."
A laugh bubbles up. "You’re buying me my own flowers?"
"Figure you rarely get them from someone else."
He’s not wrong. My parents send a card on holidays, at best. Jessica certainly never has.
But having him take a flower and offer it like it’s his right, likeI’mhis right, makes my chest ache.
I tuck the rose behind my ear, petals brushing my cheek.
"Fine," I murmur. "But I’m busy. Talk while I work."
