Page 1 of Ghost's Angel

Chapter 1

Mira

Rain pelts the diner window, a nagging reminder that I should have put my belongings up high before leaving for work in case my basement apartment floods. Again.

Not that there's much there worth saving. Threadbare clothes. Furniture gleaned from a dumpster. A few dog-eared paperbacks I scrounged from the church donation bin. That's pretty much the sum total of my worldly possessions.

"Order up!" Jimmy's voice booms from the kitchen, making me jump and dragging my attention from the nasty weather outside.At least the storm seems to be subsiding. Maybe there's still hope for a dry apartment.

I press my palm against my sternum, trying to will away the uncomfortable squeeze as I make my way to the pickup window.

Skillfully balancing three plates of greasy meals that are mediocre in every way along my arm, I do my best to ignore the mounting pressure in my chest. I can't afford weakness. Literally, I can't afford it.

Forcing myself to breathe slowly—counting to four on the inhale and four on the exhale, like the last ER doctor taught me—I weave between the tables, past Mrs. Henry, who leaves me her newspaper coupons as a tip. Past the window booth wherelocal college students camp out for hours nursing cups of coffee and sharing plates of fries. Pasthisbooth—still empty, but it's only eight pm.

"Finally!" The businessman at table six barely looks up from his phone as I set his plate down carefully, plastering on a fake smile. "This better be hot."

"Can I get you anything else, sir?"

He waves me off, already shoveling a heaping forkful of meatloaf special into his greedy mouth. At least he's not like the jerk at table four who keepsaccidentallybrushing my hip every time I pass.

The bell over the door chimes, and my heart rate kicks up ashewalks in. His presence fills the room and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up in a way that's not entirely unpleasant.

Tall, dangerous-looking, with dark gray eyes that seem to see everything. My big, tattooed, rough, tough, and gruff leather-clad biker.

My?

No, he’s not mine. Not in real life, anyway, only in my late-night fantasies.

He never says much, just orders black coffee and whatever's on special. Tips way too much.

Tonight he has another biker with him, but I can hardly focus on anyone else when he's in the room. Our eyes meet for a brief but profound moment before I look away, my pulse jumping erratically.

Calm. Stay calm. You’re not fully medicated.

I busy myself refilling sugar dispensers, very aware of the two enormous bikers settling into the usual booth. From the corner of my eye, I watch him. His cut—I've learned from Sons of Anarchy that that's what they call those leather vests—hasa patch that tells me he’s not only in a motorcycle club called Shadow Reapers, he’s the president.

"Coffee?" I manage to keep my voice steady as I approach his table, pot in hand.

He nods once, pushing his cup forward.

It's our usual dance—I pretend I don't notice how he watches me, he pretends he's just here for the crappy diner food.

In the harsh overhead lighting, the scars on his knuckles stand out starkly against tanned and weathered skin. I wonder, not for the first time, what kind of stories those scars could tell.

“The special tonight is meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas,” I recite automatically, though he probably knows our daily special rotation as well as I do by now.

“That’ll work." His voice is low, gravelly. As usual, it sends deliciously warm tingles through my lower belly and straight to my core.

He cocks a brow at the biker beside him who nods. “Make that two.”

I'm turning away when my heart does that thing again—that sickening flutter-stop-flutter. The room spins. I reach out a hand to steady myself, but my suddenly numb fingers miss the table entirely and I stumble. Before I can fall, his large, scarred, calloused hand shoots out catching my elbow.

His touch is electric. Warm. Strong. For a single moment, I let myself lean into it, imagining what it would be like to have someone like this man—powerful, fierce, ruggedly handsome—to lean on.

What would it feel like to haveanyoneto lean on?

I almost laugh at my ridiculous self. I'm a hot mess of a diner waitress who can barely afford to feed and clothe herself, and he's... Dominant. Commanding. Fearsome. So ripped his muscles have muscles. He’s way out of my league.

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