Chapter 3
Nya
"You had a man and you didn’t tell me? The biker kissing you at the festival?"
Murphy’s gravelly voice rumbles beside me as he flips pancakes on the griddle, just steps from my open shop door.
The scent of bacon and onions drifts through the alley, mixing with the floral sweetness from Wild Petals.
"Ssshhh. Keep your voice down," I hiss. "It was nothing."
Nothing but a moment I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
He’s all rugged danger. Tall. Built like a soldier. Jaw sharp enough to slice through steel, silver streaking through dark hair. The kind of man women stare at twice. The kind of man who belongs on the cover of a dark romance novel or at the center of a bar fight.
And me? I’m soft where other girls are sleek. Curvy in a way that’s never felt glamorous, just hard to dress. I wear aprons, not eyeliner. My hair’s always in a messy bun, and my idea of a wild night is making stuffed toys while binge-watching baking shows.
I don’t turn heads. I arrange flowers for a living and hide behind them when I can.
So no. Whatever happened between us wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.
Murphy’s white brows waggle. He’s in his sixties, with gnarled hands, a crooked nose from too many bar fights, and a heart bigger than his truck.
He’s been like a father to me ever since he caught me crying behind the dumpster at sixteen, the day Jessica shattered my grandmother’s teapot.
"Looked like something to me. I know him. Ghost’s a good man, for a savage. Keeps to himself. Takes care of business. And he’s got a sweet tooth. Buys my cinnamon rolls three times a week."
I cross to his side and help him set cupcakes in the display case, ignoring the flip in my belly.
"It was just a kiss," I mumble. "He was being polite. Didn’t want to embarrass me in front of everyone."
"Polite?" Murphy cackles. "He about swallowed your face when he kissed you."
My cheeks heat.
"He also threatened Jess," Murphy adds, voice turning gruff. "Never seen anyone do that. You be careful, girl. Your sister might pour sugar on for your parents, but she’s acid underneath. You humiliated her. She’ll come for you twice as hard now."
I know.
Jessica stormed into my apartment last night, mascara streaked and rage pulsing in every word.
"He’s not going to stay," she snapped. "He’ll see how dull you are and leave. Like they all do. Then you’ll come crying to me again, begging me to fix your life."
"I never begged you to fix my life. You’re delusional," I’d said, voice shaking but steady. "And I’m not crying now. You can leave."
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. How safe.
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, like I’m his 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."
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. Really listens. 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. Something hungry.
"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?”
"For the charity ride. Someone named Havoc ordered centerpieces."
Ghost’s brow lifts. "Really? He did that?"
"You didn’t know?"
"No." He blinks, then huffs a laugh, clearly caught off guard. "Thought you were just making up excuses to see me again."
"I thought you were behind it."
He smirks. "I’m not. But you can come with me."
"Go with you?"
He leans on the counter, arms crossed. The pose pulls the fabric of his shirt tight across his chest. The faded SEAL trident near his ribs peeks out, and I forget how breathing works.
"Ride on my bike. Deliver the flowers. Meet the guys."
His tone turns gruff. "I don’t like the idea of you showing up alone. They can be rough."
"Like you’re not?"
He inclines his head. "Difference is, I know you. They don’t."
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
"Be ready at noon."
His bossy tone would annoy me if it came from anyone else. With him, it does something else entirely.
My stomach flutters. No, it burns. Heat pools deep and low.
"Fine," I say, just to see the smug tilt of his mouth.
When he leaves, the shop feels emptier. I step into the doorway and watch him cross the street.
The sun catches the silver in his hair. He stops at Murphy’s truck, grabs a cinnamon roll, takes a bite, then glances back at me over his shoulder.
He winks.
I cover my face with my hands and laugh.
Maybe this is the worst decision of my life.
Or maybe it’s the start of everything.