Page 2 of Ghost's Angel

"Thank you," I whisper, carefully extracting myself from his grip. Is it my imagination, or do his fingers linger just a fraction longer than necessary?

I top off cups of coffee and wipe down tables, very aware ofhimwhen a soft, wobbly voice catches my attention.

"Dear, I think I might be a bit short tonight.” Mrs. Henry is sorting through the pile of nickels and dimes with her arthritic fingers. I move to assist her, grateful for the distraction from the intense stare that I can actually feel on my skin.

"Let me help you count that, Mrs. Henry." She's a sweet, grandmotherly type. The kind of grandmother I longed for as a child.

"Oh dear, I think I'm fifty cents short." Her voice quavers with embarrassment. "Perhaps I could come back tomorrow?—"

"No, no, you have the exact amount,” I interrupt, covertly slipping two quarters from my tip pocket and adding them to the cluster of coins. "See? Perfect amount."

Her weathered face breaks into a relieved smile, and for a moment, the crushing weight of my own problems lightens. Small kindnesses are all I have to give, but sometimes they're enough to add a little sunshine to dark days and dreary nights.

Grateful, Mrs. Henry presses a thirty five cents off coupon for laundry booster and a twenty five cents off coupon for sugar pops cereal into my hand as though she’s gracing me with a thousand dollar tip before securing her rain hat over her helmet of blue-grey hair.

I risk a glance athisbooth. He's deep in conversation with his companion, his powerful fist wrapped around a coffee mug that looks small and delicate in his massive grip. As if sensing my attention, he looks up, catching me staring. Heat floods my cheeks, but I can't look away. There's hunger in his gaze, raw and primal, and something else—something that looks almost like concern.

My heart leaps in my chest. No one has ever drawn these feelings from me like he does. Never this sizzling awareness that's like electricity shooting through my veins.

"Order up!" Jimmy hollers.

As I pass it, my reflection in the chrome coffee machine shows dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer can hide.

My pulse quickens as I approachhistable. There's something magnetic about him, something that draws me in despite—or maybe because of—the threatening air of danger emanating from him. I've never seen him smile, not once, but his eyes follow my movements with an intensity that makes heat bloom across my skin.

I slide the plates of tonight's special in front of the hulking bikers.

"C-can I g-get you anything else?" I ask, mortified by my sudden stutter.

Heshakes his head, his penetrating eyes never leaving my face. Cheeks burning, I hurry away before I can embarrass myself further.

The rain has let up but there are huge puddles flooding the cement sidewalks and asphalt roads. My apartment will definitely be soggy. But I can't think about that. I have exactly four and a half minutes until my shift ends. Then I have to change in the bathroom, and make it ten blocks through the rain-drenched streets to empty trash cans, scrub toilets, and vacuum carpets. I have to focus on the here and now—one thing at a time. Survival skills 101.

"Mira." Dave, my manager, beckons from behind the counter. His smile is unpleasant. "Need to see you in my office after your shift."

My stomach drops. Last time he wanted to see me in his office, he spent twenty minutes explaining howunderstandinghe could be about my schedule if I was moreunderstandingabout his needs. I'd rather work double shifts for the rest of my life than beunderstandingabout Dave's needs.

"Actually, sir, I can't stay late tonight. I have to leave right after?—"

His eyes drag down my body lasciviously. "Don't make me write you up for insubordination." His tone carries an ugly edge that makes me shrink into myself. "It wasn't a request."

Crap.

The thought of being alone with Dave makes my stomach turn, but I need this job. At least until I can build up some savings from my new night cleaning position.

A shadow falls across the counter, and the temperature in the diner seems to drop ten degrees. I look up to findhimstanding there. I hadn't even heard him move. His broad shoulders and muscled arms are covered in intricate tattoos that disappear beneath his leather, and his massive frame radiates barely contained violence as he stares down my manager.

Dave takes an involuntary step backward. "Is there something you need?"

The biker's presence alone fills the space with menace. "Her shift is over. She's leaving. Now." His low growl leaves no room for argument.

Even so, Dave—never the sharpest tool in the shed—opens and closes his mouth several times as though he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. He looks like a fish. Finally, after a long moment, his face turns beet red and he mutters something about checking inventory before practically running to the storeroom.

This man, this stranger, exudes danger from every pore. I should be frightened. Instead, my treacherous heart flutters, and my crush on him deepens.

When his gaze shifts to me, there's something in those storm-gray eyes that makes me feel...seen. Protected. Wanted.

It's terrifying how much I crave that feeling.

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