Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I know. I know. As a business owner I should know these things. Every detail. But this is my grandfather. He said I have the perfect location. He paid all the payments to get things started. I know what I pay in rent isn’t covering a mortgage on the building or the rent if he doesn’t own it.
A pause.
"Good morning to you too, Alaina." His voice is warm despite the early hour.
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose thinking I’ve been so rude. "Morning. But seriously, do you own it or am I supposed to call someone else?"
I hate not knowing what to do. I got so excited starting the bakery five years ago, I didn’t ask any questions and well, I’ve been busy establishing it, I never thought to ask anything from anyone. Now, I actually have a problem and no solutions.
There’s another pause, longer this time.
"I’ll send someone," he finally says.
My brows furrow. "Wait—you own it? Do you want me to call my own plumber then?" I rent my apartment. I know if something breaks I call the office and they cover the repairs. If my grandfather owns the building then I’ll get the plumber and pay the costs. He is already taking care of enough for me. I feel dumb not knowing who I should call or who even owns the building I’m in. If it isn’t his building, I don’t want to get either one of us in trouble for not using their designated service people.
Another pause. “I’ll send someone."
“But,” he cuts me off as I try to offer to cover the cost.
A long sigh, “I said I’d send someone. I can’t call someone else if I’m on the phone with you Ally. Just clean up what you can and I’ll have someone to you within the hour.”
The call disconnects before I can argue.
I huff, staring at my phone like it personally betrayed me. That was... vague. But at least someone is coming to fix the damn pipe. I just hope they show up soon because the more I look at the water pooling around my feet, the more my nerves start to fray.
A half hour later, just as I finish pushing water toward the back door with the mop, the low, rolling rumble of motorcycles stops me in my tracks. I straighten, heart skipping a beat as I wipe the sweat from my forehead. That sound is unmistakable. It’s the Kings of Anarchy.
The engines cut off outside, leaving behind an eerie stillness. A moment later, heavy boots crunch against gravel. My breath quickens as the front door swings open, and two men step inside, filling the space with nothing but their sheer size and presence.
They’re both dressed the same—jeans, black shirts, and leather vests. But it’s the patches that catch my attention.
The name tags on their vests read DIPSHIT. Both of them.
I’ve seen that on the social media sites. Some men are into public humiliation as a form of kink. I don’t get it myself. I want a man who is all man.
An alpha male.
I have to make enough decisions in my business. To have a partner who simply reads me and takes care of things. From the easy parts of the day to what we are having for a dinner to the harder parts like a broken down car. I want to experience a masculine male who isn’t intimidated by the independence I crave in my business, but the partnership I need in my home. I want a man who will clean the toilet if I ask, but also spank my ass, call me pretty, and pull my hair from behind to remind me who is in charge.
I blink. My brain scrambles for an explanation, but before I can even process that, my gaze drops to the single patch at the bottom of those vests
PROSPECT.
Oh.
Oh, no.
My stomach twists as I take an instinctive step back, my pulse spiking. These aren’t just random bikers. They’re Kings—and not full members or whatever. I’ve seen the shows. I know enough about motorcycle clubs to get me in trouble. Fantasies are fun, but they are never reality.
That said if what I do know is true. Prospects do the dirty work. They haven’t earned their place yet, which means they have something to prove. That alone makes them dangerous. People with something to earn have a drive. A push from inside them that may mean success at all costs. Drive is good, but the at all costs part can mean a plethora of problems.
One of them—a tall, lean guy with shaggy brown hair and sharp eyes—grins, flashing a dimple that should be charming but somehow isn’t. Instead it’s almost menacing.
"Morning, sugar," he drawls, his voice dripping with amusement. "Heard you needed a plumber."
The second man, bulkier with a shaved head and arms covered in full sleeve tattoos thick with muscle, just crosses his arms and stares. His silence is somehow more unnerving than the first guy’s smirk.