Page 5

Ghost

T oday’s the big reveal. The day Heather delivers on her promise of amazing floor plans for my accessory dwelling.

She taught me that’s a fancy way of saying garage renovation .

Shit, I’m becoming more enamored with this woman by the fuckin’ minute.

I normally hold back for a bit—used to women running out on me.

But Heather’s different. While she’s been working on the perfect floor plan, I’ve been prepping the garage for the renovation.

She’s nice, talkative, and engaged when we’re together.

Most women just want to ride my cock and run away.

They like the experience of being with someone they see as a bad boy, without the risk of having a real relationship.

It’s the complete opposite with Heather.

She doesn’t seem interested in my cock—she actually seems to enjoy my company.

Do I wish she was interested in my cock?

Yeah, of course I do. Any man would. But am I gonna wave it in her face and flirt with her all the time?

No. That’d be all kinds of disrespectful.

She’s here as my designer, not as a potential date, and to think of her in any other way is just plain wrong.

Even if she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen with a fantastic sense of humor.

Instead, I’m just gonna mind my own business, be satisfied with her friendship, and enjoy her company for however long it lasts.

I lean over a Firebird, locking the last of the bolts into place after replacing the radiator.

I’m so lost in my own thoughts that the wrench I’m using slips out of my hand and clatters onto the concrete floor, bouncing once before skidding away.

I curse under my breath and wipe my hands on the shop towel tucked into my waistband.

I promised to have the mommy van that Siege’s nanny uses finished within the hour.

I’m running late. I hustle to grab my wrench off the floor and finish the damn job.

It takes me about fifteen more minutes to make sure it’s tightened down and not overheating anymore.

I write up a ticket, leave it on the desk, and scrub myself clean before heading out to the main room to meet with Heather.

She’s already sitting at one of the tables, getting chatted up by Bear. We were prospects together, and he’s a nice guy, but it irks me that he jumped on her the minute she walked into the clubhouse.

I walk up to the table and say to Bear, “Rigs wants you in the back.”

I watch his eyes go wide, a little panic setting in—just like back when we were prospects.

“Fuck, really? I didn’t do anything wrong. What do you think he wants with me?”

I shrug carelessly with one shoulder and deadpan, “Probably to tell you to get the fuck away from my employee. She’s here to meet with me about a building project, not shoot the shit with you.”

Doesn’t take Bear a hot second to catch my drift. He immediately pushes himself up from the table, makes his apologies to Heather, and gets the hell outta dodge.

When I sit down, Heather asks, “What in the world was that about?”

“It was about my best friend wasting my time. Now, what do you have for me today?”

I don’t even know why I’m so irritated with Bear. A little voice in the back of my mind whispers that it’s probably because I thought he was hitting on her—not that it’s any of my business. Fuck, I’m screwed in the head over this.

I wait patiently as she pulls out her electronic tablet and searches for the pieces she wants me to see.

It’s two in the afternoon. The clubhouse is quiet.

When we were prospecting, we used to call it the midafternoon lull.

Club girls are the only ones hanging about.

Most of the brothers are off working or doing something productive.

No one’s playing pool, the jukebox is silent, and there’s no throaty roar of motorcycles coming and going.

Patch brings out the food and drinks I arranged ahead of time, a big platter of different kinds of sandwiches, chips, and soda.

I love just watching Heather work. She sits up straight, her hair tied up in a long, straight ponytail. Her tablet buzzes to life and she starts scrolling through the files it holds.

She looks up when I push a can of her favorite soda across the table to her.

“Thanks, I appreciate you arranging a late lunch for us.”

A soft, approving smile slips onto my face. “You’re welcome. I’m really excited to see what you came up with.”

Finally, the floor plan sketches pop up on her tablet. Her neat digital renderings are detailed, and I find myself reaching for her tablet without asking. She doesn’t mind. She lets go of it, and I pull it closer to get a better look—her neat, tight handwriting labeling all the areas.

She picks up a sandwich as she explains, “I’ve got three layout options for you to look over. They’re all compact, functional, and designed to feel livable—just like you wanted.”

I use my finger to expand the view, diving into the details. “I did say I wanted a space that feels like home.”

“I make my living by delivering what my clients ask for,” she responds, amusement in her voice.

I lean forward, getting lost in her designs. “When you’re in professional mode, you talk like you build.”

She tilts her head, her expression is interested but confused. “How’s that? I don’t understand.”

“You’re direct and efficient. No wordiness or bullshit.”

She grins and takes a bite of her sandwich while I study her designs more thoroughly. I flip through the layouts. Everything she’s done makes sense. The designs are streamlined, with clever built-ins and small details that make the space feel bigger without trying too hard.

“What’s this?” I ask, tapping a detail on one of the floor plans. It looks like a floating shelf that runs the width of the living space.

“I had an idea that we could reclaim wood from that old workbench and turn it into a breakfast bar,” she explains. “The wood was interesting, and if we sand it down and stain it a dark brown, it’ll look amazing with a couple of black chairs with matte metal legs. What do you think?”

I look up at her, impressed. “I think that’s an amazing and inventive money-saving idea. You’re really good at this.”

She gives me a proud look. “I know.”

I can’t help but grin. She’s so matter of fact about it. Unless I miss my guess, she’s not even trying to be cocky or any kind of way. Heather’s just a woman who knows her own worth. That’s damn hot in my eyes.

Heather is a beautiful, self-confident woman.

She doesn’t need to dress up or wear loads of makeup.

She’s beautiful with a clean, natural look.

She’s got a heart-shaped face with a sharp jaw, strong cheekbones, a mouth that seems more suited to no-nonsense observations than flirty smiles.

But it’s her eyes that get to me the most. They’re intelligent, focused, and calm.

I get the feeling she sees every moving part of this renovation and is already five steps ahead of whatever I’m thinking.

And when she talks? I listen. Every damn time. Her voice draws me in. I want to know her opinions and what she thinks about things.

I reluctantly hand her the tablet back. That’s when she pulls out a few fists of paint samples and cabinet finishes. She lays them out like cards, fanned across the table between us.

“I like to grab physical samples when I’m involved in a project,” she says. “That way, you can get a feel for what everything looks like and feel the textures for yourself.”

“Are you always this hands-on?” I ask.

“Yes. You don’t get a feel for building finishes by looking at pictures. You have to get tactile. Trust me, it gets better results.”

I lean back in my seat, studying her, trying to figure out what makes her tick.

Heather’s not just good at her job. That’s a mild understatement.

She’s phenomenal. The kind of person who takes genuine pride in her work.

I clearly lucked out by hiring her. I respect the hell out of her dedication to other people’s projects.

I probably should be paying her a hell of a lot more. And it’s messing with my head.

I’ve told myself over and over that our relationship is supposed to be just business.

That’s the way she wants it, so that’s the way it has to be.

But my heart and my head are saying two very different things when it comes to Heather.

Every time we’re together, I catch myself watching her a little too long, thinking about her a little too much.

“Do you have time to walk through with a structural engineer?” she asks, flipping her notebook open. “I’ve got a guy I trust who could do it on Friday at six in the evening.”

“Yeah,” I say, jerking to attention. “I’ll make sure I’m there for it.”

“Good. I’ll email you the floor plans and give you a few days to decide which one you like best. After we finalize the layout, price the materials, and I’ll bring you actual finish samples so we can make real decisions.”

“And budget?”

She scribbles something quick, does some math in her head, and shoots back, “It still looks good. We’re tight, but doable if we stick to the plan.”

“Then we stick to the plan, right?”

She looks up at me then, her gaze turning admiring and a little unfocused. Having her eyes on me is so riveting I forget what we’re even talking about.

“Yeah, we stick to the plan. Definitely.”

I’m about to respond when I hear my name.

“Ghost,” Siege says as he walks up.

When I glance at him, he gives me a chin lift.

“We need you in the garage for a minute,” Siege insists. “That older guy is here about the clutch.”

“Seriously?” I mutter, glancing at the clock. “He’s two hours ahead of schedule.”

Siege shrugs. “Says he’s gotta drop off now and he wants to talk to the mechanic that’ll be working on his truck. That’s you, my friend.”

I flash him a grin. “That damn sure is me. I’ll be right there.”

I look back at Heather. “Give me ten and I’ll be back.”