Page 8 of Ghost's Obsession

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 ontothe 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, andI 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.”

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