He follows me quietly as I water hanging baskets and trim stems. He moves like a shadow, silent and controlled.
He asks about the shop. I tell him about my grandmother, the language of flowers, what colors mean what. I ramble about how yellow roses stand for friendship and lavender for grace.
He listens.Reallylistens. And when I glance his way, he’s watching my mouth like he’s already imagining kissing me again.
I drop a bunch of baby’s breath. He’s at my side in an instant, crouching to help.
Our fingers brush.
A jolt sparks up my spine. I gasp and pull back.
He doesn’t.
"You always this skittish?" he murmurs, handing me the stems.
"Only around men who kiss me in public," I shoot back before I can stop myself.
His eyes gleam.
"I meant what I said," he says, voice low. "You’re mine."
I look down and focus on trimming herbs.
"You don’t know me."
"Not yet," he says. "I plan to. If you’ll let me."
His voice is all heat and promise. It curls around something buried in me. Somethinghungry.
"I’m not… I’m not experienced," I blurt, then slap a hand over my mouth.
Did I just tell a rugged biker I’m a twenty-four-year-old virgin?
Ghost’s expression softens.
"I could tell," he says. "Doesn’t matter. Haven’t been with anyone myself, if we’re being honest."
"You haven’t?"
His jaw ticks. "No. Been busy." There’s pain in the word. Scars I can’t see. "So no need to worry about comparisons."
He leans in until his breath brushes my ear.
My knees wobble. I grip the counter.
"You’re very sure of yourself," I whisper.
"Only when it comes to you."
He brushes his knuckles over my cheek. The touch burns.
I glance toward the front window and catch sight of Murphy leaning out of his food truck, spatula in hand, watching us like it’s his favorite morning soap. When he notices me looking, he grins wide and gives me a thumbs up through the glass.
I narrow my eyes and shake my head, hoping that conveys stop it, but it only makes him laugh harder before turning back to flip a pancake.
"I have to deliver an arrangement to the clubhouse later," I say, desperate to change the subject before I melt.
“How so?”
