Page 10 of Property of Chux

I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe.

"Ally?" my grandfather says softly.

I close my eyes for a second, blocking out the overwhelming reality of the situation. Then, I straighten.

"Fine," I mutter. "But I’m watching them the entire time."

One of the men—Dipshit #1—winks at me from across the room.

"Looking forward to it, sugar."

I groan.

Today is going to belong.

CHAPTER 5

DAMIAN

The morning sunis already brutal by the time I roll up in front ofFrosted and Filled.The heat clings to my skin, thick and unrelenting, but I don’t feel it. My mind is on business—always is. Alabama summers can be intense with the humidity of the deep south.

The two prospects I sent to fix the pipe should be done by now. The instructions Grit gave them to repair the pipe fitting that busted were simple enough. If they fucked it up, they’ll be learning how to fix a whole lot more than plumbing. Being a Prospect for the Kings means proving yourself, and if they can’t handle a simple job like this, they won’t last long. I’ll assess the damage and determine if she needs new floors. If so, that can be their next task.

I kill the engine on my Harley-Davidson Road King, drop my kickstand, swing off, and adjust my cut. The place looks the same as always—quaint, warm, too damn innocent for the kind of men that own it. A lie wrapped up in pastel-colored window trim and the sweet scent of fresh bread.

The Kings might hold the deed, but she is the one who gives it life.

Alaina.

The name rolls through my mind like a slow burn. I didn’t expect to take much notice of her. She’s just another face in town, another person running a business that we allow to keep running. But she isn’t just another anything.

She’s fucking beautiful.

She caught my eye the first time I came in. Then one taste of her treats and yeah, I’m a man hooked. I promised myself I wouldn’t taint her with the darkness of my life, my world, my very soul. Yet, no matter how I much I should stay away, I don’t. Here fate brings us together again.

Even now, frustrated and frazzled, she is still gorgeous.

Not in a way that she knows it, not in a way that’s deliberate. She’s all soft curves and warm eyes, that wild blonde hair always pulled back, like she doesn’t have time to worry about how damn good she looks. But it’s her mouth that gets me—the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the way her breath catches when she’s caught off guard.

And I plan to catch her off guard a lot.

I don’t need a distraction, but I’ll be damned if she won’t be a fun one.

I push open the door, the small chime above it completely out of place for a man like me. The scent of sugar and coffee wraps around me immediately, a direct contrast to the grease, smoke, and gun oil I’m used to.

She’s behind the counter, talking to one of the Prospects—Dipshit #1, judging by the shaggy brown hair, it’s James. That’s his actual name, not that I’ll ever call him that. I don’t need to hear what she’s saying to know she’s pissed.

Her brows are furrowed, hands on her hips, frustration rolling off her in waves.

The second I step inside, she stops mid-sentence.

Her lips part slightly, and those wide, honey-colored eyes land on me.

I smirk.

Gotcha, sweetheart.

I don’t take my sunglasses off as I step further inside, letting the silence stretch between us, letting her process that I know exactly who she is.

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