Chapter 7
Caleb
Nya’s hand is still in mine as we make our way down the stairs from her apartment. I’m not letting go anytime soon. Her palm is small, warm, soft. Like every damn thing I never knew I needed until now.
We step into the shop, and the scent of wildflowers hits me first. Then cinnamon. Murphy’s still at his food truck, flipping pancakes and probably eavesdropping through the window like the nosy old bastard he is.
Sure enough, as we pass out back to load the flowers into the truck, Murphy leans halfway out of the order window with a spatula in hand.
"You kids sure took your time," he calls out with a wide grin. "Nya never takes her break at noon. Must’ve been real busy upstairs."
Nya blushes so hard I swear her cheeks might combust. She ducks her head, biting her smile, and I can see the way her shoulders shake with a silent laugh.
My jaw ticks. Part of me wants to say something, to tell him to ease up, but it’s Murphy. The old man means no harm. And the teasing is harmless in that familiar, gruff way of his. Like family.
Murphy’s laugh booms as he turns back to his pancakes, clearly pleased with himself.
We work together in easy silence, arranging the floral centerpieces into the truck bed. She checks each vase twice to make sure everything’s secure. It’s all warm hues. Burnt orange dahlias, deep red roses, sunflowers, twigs wrapped in rustic twine. The kind of color that says fall.
"Looks amazing," I say, meaning it.
She smiles up at me. "Thanks. I hope they like them."
"They will." I brush a piece of hair from her cheek. "And if they don’t, they’re idiots."
Once the truck is loaded, I swing my leg over my bike. She’ll follow me there, and I hate the idea of even a few miles of distance between us, but at least I’ll have her in my mirrors the whole way.
"You good?" I call out.
She nods, settling into the truck’s cab. "Meet you there."
We ride.
The road between Wild Petals and the clubhouse is long and winding, the kind that calms your nerves if you let it.
Trees are turning orange and gold. The air’s cooler today, crisp with the first real bite of fall.
It feels like a turning point. Like something in the world is shifting in time with us.
When we pull into the lot, a few bikes are already parked outside. I get off mine and meet her at the back of the truck.
She’s already pulling a few arrangements forward.
"Let me," I say, taking the weight out of her hands.
The clubhouse is a converted factory building tucked into the edge of town. Brick walls. High windows. The Damned Saints’ emblem painted across the steel doors.
She hesitates before going in.
"They’ll love you," I say quietly, reaching for her hand again. "Just be yourself."
"What if they’re..."
"They’re rough. But they’re family."
That seems to settle something in her. She squeezes my fingers and steps forward.
Inside, Havoc’s the first to notice us. He’s lounging on the worn leather couch near the bar, boots up, phone in hand.
"Well, well, well," he drawls, eyes flicking from me to Nya and back again. "Look who finally grew a pair."
Viper snorts from where he’s leaning against the pool table. "About time. Thought you took a vow of celibacy, Ghost."
I roll my eyes and mutter, "Don’t talk like that in front of her."
"Oh, come on," Havoc says. "You’ve got that face. She’s gotta know."
"I do," Nya says sweetly, stepping closer to me. "And I like it."
I glance at her, surprised. She’s got a sparkle in her eyes like she’s enjoying watching them fluster me.
She is.
Hell.
"Girl’s got bite," Viper says with approval. "You’re welcome here anytime."
"I brought flowers," she says, nodding toward the arrangements I’m still holding.
Havoc whistles. "Damn. You really outdid yourself."
"We asked for centerpieces, not a full-blown magazine spread," Viper adds with a smirk, eyeing the flowers like they might bite.
"Don’t complain now," Havoc says, elbowing him. "You're the one who said we needed to make a good impression this year."
"Yeah, but I didn’t expect it to smell like a damn botanical garden," Viper mutters, then grins. "Looks great, though. Real classy."
Nya laughs, and the sound bounces off the brick and wood like the first warm breeze after a long winter. She fits here. She doesn’t even know it, but she fits.
A prospect steps into the room from the back hallway and freezes when he sees her.
"Wait... You’re the one who makes the stuffed animals for the kids," he says, eyes wide. "My niece got one last Christmas. Wouldn’t let it go for weeks."
Nya blinks. "She did?"
"Yeah. That penguin thing with the crooked scarf? That was you?"
She nods, clearly a little overwhelmed.
"You’re like a legend to those kids," he says, grinning. "Thank you. Seriously."
Color blooms in her cheeks again, but it’s different this time. Not embarrassed. Moved.
"Guess we know who’s getting the best slice of pie at the potluck," Havoc mutters.
Viper adds, "Yup. She’s officially club royalty now."
I set the arrangements on the long table near the front window. She helps adjust them, fluffing petals and fixing angles.
Her fingers brush mine. She looks up.
That glow’s still there in her eyes. The kind that makes a man believe in things he’s never dared to hope for.
"See?" I murmur. "Told you they’d like you."
"They’re not what I expected," she whispers. "I thought it’d be... more leather and glaring."
"Oh, that comes later."
She laughs again, and I lean down to kiss the corner of her mouth.
No one whistles. No one catcalls. It’s just quiet respect. The kind that says, Yeah. We see it. We get it.
Because they know.
This girl’s mine.
And that means she’s theirs too.
Part of the family.
For real.
We finish arranging the last of the flowers.
She fluffs a sunflower, adjusts a twig of wheat, then steps back with that soft, satisfied smile of hers.
The guys have mostly gone back to their usual lounging and bickering, but I catch more than one glance thrown our way.
None of them unkind. Just curious. Protective.
Like they’re already drawing her into the circle.
Nya turns to me, her voice quiet, almost shy.
"Hey..." Her hand is still in mine. "Would it be weird if I asked to see your room?"
Those eyes.
Big, warm, full of mischief and something deeper. Sparkling with a kind of wonder, like she’s not just asking to see where I sleep. She’s asking to see more of me.
Something tightens low in my gut.
I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help much. My jeans are suddenly way too snug. She has no idea what that question does to me.
"You sure?" My voice comes out lower than I intend.
She nods, biting her bottom lip. "I want to see your space. Where you live."
I exhale slowly, trying to play it cool. But hell if she knew how hard it is not to just throw her over my shoulder and carry her there right now.
"Yeah," I say, voice rough. "I’ll show you."
Her smile widens, all sunshine and curiosity.
I lead her through the back and up the stairs, her soft footfalls trailing behind mine. The second floor is quieter, set apart from the noise and grit below. It smells like pinewood and old tobacco—familiar, steady.
But nothing about me feels steady now.
Because she asked.
She wants to see where I sleep.
And all I can think about is how close she is, how soft she sounds, and how every drop of blood in my body is rushing south.
That soon, she might be in my bed.
Wearing nothing but that sweet, mischievous smile.
And I’m already hard as a damn rock.