Page 41 of Ghost's Obsession

I glance over my shoulder, and fuck me if that sight doesn’t hit me right in the feels. Heather’s wearing my old flannel pajamas. Her hair’s a mess, and she’s barefoot too.

“Only when it’s worth the calories.”

She walks closer, bare feet quiet on the hardwood. “Are you feeding a football team or just carb-loading for round two?”

I huff. “The prospects were on shift last night. Least I can do’s feed them.”

She pauses. “I forgot they were here.”

I grin at her as she ambles over to make herself a coffee. I bought some decaf especially for her, Patch said it was okay for her to drink regular coffee in moderation, but she said she wanted to be as healthy as possible. “They stayed alert all night. You didn’t hear ‘em, did you?”

“No. After all the bed sport, I slept like a rock.”

My chest swells with pride that she slept so well in my bed. The bed sport, as she calls it, was an amazing bonus.

A knock at the back door breaks the quiet. Patch’s voice follows. “If there’s bacon, I might be your new best friend.”

“Get in here before I change my mind and hog it all for myself,” I call.

The back door creaks open, and boots stomp in—Evan, Levi, and Patch all file through, smelling like cigarettes, damp leather, and sleep deprivation.

“Morning, Ghost,” Levi says, nodding. Then, to Heather, “Ma’am.”

She stiffens a little at the title. I shoot Levi a dark look. “She’s not your principal, man. Drop the ma’am.”

Patch leans in like he’s whispering, but his voice carries. “That shirt’s got better curves on her.”

I shoot him a glare. “Try that again and I’ll serve your plate straight into your lap.”

He grins, shameless, and grabs a fork. He’s becoming more like us every single day and less like the pompous doctor he once was.

They settle around the big reclaimed-wood table I built last year with Dutch. We fill our plates and make sure everyone has coffee before the conversation gets started. Heather hovers for a second, unsure, until I tap the chair beside me.

“Sit beside me. I can’t trust any of these fuckers not to steal you away from me.”

She chuckles at my antics and drops down into place beside me.

Heather doesn’t say much, but she listens. The prospects are rough around the edges, but she lets it all wash over her. She smiles at the way they rib each other, shift to protect the weaker seat at the table, the way they fall silent anytime the wind outside changes direction.

She’s watching them and learning more about club culture every day. I’m so fuckin’ proud of her. I catch Levi studying her across the rim of his cup. He’s autistic and probably trying to understand social cues.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks her.

She nods. “Yeah, and it was the best rest I’ve had in a while.”

“Good,” he says. The worry clears from his young face, and that’s the end of that.

I slide a hand along her thigh under the table. Nothing big. Just enough to remind her she’s safe here, with the prospects, in the middle of my world.

The food disappears fast. They rinse their plates without being told. It’s habit—part of the social responsibility the Legion teaches, a matter of respect. There are no egos or barking orders. Just men who know how to be respectful to one another.

They head out a few minutes later, engines firing to life one by one. Heather watches them through the window. Not long after, Crow and Tusk pull in. Siege promised round-the-clock protection, and he’s a man who always keeps his word.

“You always feed the men who stand guard for you?” she asks.

“They’ve never stood guard for me before last night. It just seemed the right thing to do, particularly since I was cooking for you anyway.”

She turns towards me, arms crossed over her chest, with each hand stuffed in the opposite sleeve of the flannel pajamas to keep her hands warm. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth for a brief moment before she smiles at me.

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