Page 8

And Ghost is a hard worker. He just keeps moving, with no wasted motion.

He’s a bit like the Energizer Bunny. And when he switches up tasks it’s clear that he’s been thinking of what needed doing ahead of time.

He seems like a guy who’s always ten steps ahead of everyone else. I like that about him.

I’m sweeping near the front door when he comes back in from carrying out a stack of old pipes. That’s when our arms touch in passing. We barely brush against each other, but it’s enough to make me stop mid-sweep. I just stand there like a big fool, staring up at him.

He’s closer than I thought and smells like sawdust, soap, and warm leather. My skin prickles where our arms touched. Neither of us step away.

“Sorry,” he says, a little too late. His voice is deep but softer than before. He quickly glances away.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, not wanting him to feel any kind of way about accidentally brushing against me. For something so small, this seems like an inordinately big deal.

We both look at each other for a second too long and then my stomach rumbles loudly. I cringe on the inside, remembering that I’ve only had a granola bar all morning.

His eyes immediately drop down to my stomach, and he asks, “You want to break for lunch?”

I simply nod, because what can I say? I’m clearly hungry. My damned stomach gave me away.

The big biker asks, “What do you normally eat for lunch. Is a sandwich okay?”

“Sounds good. I usually have sandwiches or soup. I trade them off, having one or the other pretty much every day.”

A grin spreads across his face. “Back in two minutes.”

Sure enough, in no time at all, he comes back with a brown paper bag and some drinks in a cooler. He sets it all on the table and motions for me to join him.

“Wow, this is a surprise. What did you make for us?”

“Turkey on sourdough, chips, and apples. Is that good with you? If not, we can order out.”

“God no, this is perfect, I tell him enthusiastically.

We sit on the fold-up chairs he’s brought in, just like we did the week before.

“Where’d you learn to do this kind of work?” Ghost asks, before taking a bite of his sandwich.

“I started as a helper for my grandfather when I was sixteen. He was a contractor. I learned how to hang and finish drywall as well as paint right off the bat. My grandfather started relying on me more and more once we figured out that I was good at organizing his normally chaotic worksite. I got interested in design and planning, and the rest just happened.”

He chews, then nods. “Makes sense. You’re good at it.”

“Thanks,” I respond absently as I unwrap my sandwich and grab a soda out of his cooler.

“When did you decide to strike out on your own?”

Losing my appetite, I lay my sandwich aside and open my drink.

I take a sip of the cold soda before I launch into an explanation.

“I was raised by my grandfather. He worked right up until the day he died. My father stepped into his shoes, but we never got along. So, I struck out on my own by necessity.”

Eyeing him, I’m eager to change the subject, so I ask, “What about you? You work at your club’s garage. What do you do there, just repair motorcycles all day?”

When he laughs, his tone is deep and genuine. “It’s actually a full-service garage. I work there full time, mostly repairing cars and trucks. Occasionally, I luck out and get a motorcycle, but not often. But I supplement my income by picking up side gigs.”

I perk up because I’ve always been interested in the gig economy. “Like what kind of gigs?”

“The one that nets me the most money is being a mobile mechanic,” he responds. “I’m also a mobile locksmith, a self- defense instructor, I give motorcycle tours on the weekends, and sometimes I work funeral or wedding escorts for veterans and bikers.”

I just stare at him with my mouth hanging open. “That’s a lot of extra work.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I grew up broke. Don’t ever want to be that way again. I like having options in life, and to have options, you have to have cold hard cash.”

Suddenly, a lot of things make sense that didn’t make sense before. Namely, the constant work, the intensity. He’s always doing something, always working, like standing still is some kind of sin.

Finally, I find my words again. “That’s really smart. Bet it’s a real nightmare to file your taxes every year.”

That earns me a full grin. “You ain’t wrong about that. Sometimes, I think my accountant actually hates me.”

I laugh and pick my sandwich back up, feeling my appetite return with a vengeance. “If you ever need help preparing to meet with your accountant, I’ve got a system for sorting receipts that’ll blow your mind.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you being serious right now? ‘Cause I’d totally take you up on an offer like that. Name your price.”

His tone is serious, but his expression is warm. And his eyes linger on me for a moment too long.

I look down at my sandwich. “I’m always up for another gig with you. Just let me know when you want to have a sit-down.”

He shoots back, “How about the second we get this build finished?”

I choke on my laugh. “Sounds like you’re a needy, needy man.”

“When it comes to keeping my businesses straight and spending time with you, you’d better believe I am.”

I smile at him and take a bite of the food he made for us.

Except my stomach roils halfway through the sandwich, and I have to wrap it back up.

Noticing immediately, Ghost asks, “Is the food not good?”

“It’s wonderful, I’m just gonna save the rest of mine for later,” I tell him. “I guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.”

He doesn’t press, but I catch a flicker of concern in his eyes. He’s not the kind of guy to pry, so he doesn’t keep after me to tell him what’s wrong.

Of course, this is another reason I like being around him. He notices things but lets me have my space. That means he has good boundaries.

By the time the sun sets we’ve made real progress.

We’ve taken out the rest of the junk, marked up the framing layout, moved the utility hookups into place for the kitchenette, and started clearing wall space for the new appliances.

Ghost has to leave for a night ride tour he’s planned for some motorcycle enthusiasts from out of town.

I stay behind, waving him off with a promise to lock the place up before I go to bed.

He gives me a long hard look, like maybe he doesn’t want to leave me here alone, but eventually he gets on his bike and leaves.

I start to tidy up because on a worksite there is always a mess to clean.

I’m used to that though, so it’s no trouble.

The silence after he leaves is peaceful.

Truth be told, it’s also a bit lonely. In the short time I’ve known him, I’ve gotten used to hanging out with him and I like his company.

I also like the way he looks, but thinking about my employer in that way is all kinds of wrong.

Thankfully, my stomach has calmed down. I take a short break and finish my sandwich from earlier and drink another soda pop.

All in all, I feel like we put in some good hours today.

I like that feeling. But now my muscles are aching, and my fingers are sore.

It seems like something is always destined to hurt when I do this kind of work.

After cleaning up, I shower off in the stand-up shower and then curl up on my cot in a hoodie and leggings with my project notebook on my lap and a pen in my hand. I scribble out a to-do list, revise some budget figures, then flip the page and just stare at the paper for a minute.

My stomach has stopped churning. Mostly. But something still feels off.

I reel back in my mind—back to the nausea that seemed to drag on forever this morning.

To the last time I had my period. The past month and a half have been so crazy I’ve been more focused on surviving than anything else.

As my mind does the math, my breath catches in my throat.

My entire world slows to a crawl and my hand tightens on my pen.

I’m late, and by a few days. Scrap that. More like a few weeks…

I put the notebook aside and pull my knees up to my chest. My heart is starting to thud just a little too fast.

I tell myself it could just be stress. Or the new schedule, the travel, the long hours. But none of that is true. I know deep down inside what it is, even though I desperately want it to be anything but that. I’d rather have an ulcer than be pregnant with my ex’s baby.

He’s a monster, one I haven’t seen in almost two months. I ran from him, left everything behind and ran like hell to Las Salinas. This was supposed to be my fresh start.

My worry turns in different directions. I can’t let him know.

Knowing him, he’ll be looking for me. I left before and he dragged me back.

This time that can’t happen, especially not if I am pregnant.

There’s only one way to solve the question, and that’s to buy a pregnancy test and use it. Unfortunately, I’m paralyzed by fear.