 by KB Winters.jpg)
Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78237 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78237 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Unfortunately, neither will her ex.
He’s determined to take the club down—and her with it.
I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her. Even if that means war.
But Maven’s not making it easy. The more I try to get close to her, the more she pushes me away.
She says she’s too old for me. But I know what I want. And I’m not giving up without a fight.
Maven is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’ll do whatever it takes to make her mine.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Maven
“Damn, girl, can you believe how busy we’ve been lately?” Willow Martinez says. The beautiful twenty-something flashes her bright blue eyes at me. For some reason, she wants to work at my bakery and enthuses with a toothy grin as she locks the door and flips the CLOSED sign over for the night. “Who knew so many people were still on the carb train?”
I can’t help but laugh at Willow. She’s loud and exuberant and probably my biggest supporter. I shrug off her words even though they fill me with the satisfaction of seeing my dream come true.
“What can I say? Together we’re putting For Goodness Cakes on the map!” Business has been steady for months, so steady that I now stay open until nine at night. I mean, what bakeries do that?
“On the map? Honey, we are the map.” Willow shakes her head, a curtain of blonde hair falling around her shoulders when she releases the bun she has to wear. You guessed it. She hates the hair net. “We literally can’t keep the Maven Cakes on the shelf for more than fifteen minutes.”
I sigh at her reminder that my signature cakes bring in all kinds of new business. “It’s only because a re-run of the Amateur Baker’s Championship recently aired.”
At least, that’s what I tell myself because at my age, I don’t take any measure of success for granted.
“Yeah, yeah,” Willow rolls her eyes and busies herself, flipping the chairs onto the small pastel tables that give my bakery a cheerful, airy feeling. The cozy atmosphere makes the customers want to sit and chat and soak up the sun that filters in most of the day.
“You’re so modest it’s disgusting,” she growls. “But I love you anyway, and this place is fun. And Angel Harbor has the hottest bikers ever, and I can pay rent without showing my tits.”
I snort-laugh at her blunt assessment of her financial situation. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Willow laughs. “I mean, there are a few bikers I wouldn’t mind getting a peek at the girls,” she says and shakes her boobs for emphasis. “One day,” she whispers and crosses her fingers.
I shake my head at the folly of youth. “You don’t really want a biker, do you? Not for keeps?”
“Hell, yeah, I do. They’re hot as fuck and badass. I’m about to cream my panties just thinking about it,” she laughs. “Thank God the day is over, right?”
“Willow,” I groan in a teasing tone. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“Me? I should be asking you that question, the woman who’s dating, of all people, a used car salesman. You should have gone to Angel Harbor Choppers and got a bike. A big, fat hog. I would have gone with you. I bet I could have talked them down on the price.” She smiles.
Despite Willow’s tone, my lips part into a smile at the mention of my boyfriend, Cyrus. We’ve been dating for almost eight months, and unlike the biker boys Willow lusts after, he’s a good guy, an upstanding citizen with a respectable job.
“And what would I do with a “hog”?” I ask with air quotes. “What’s wrong with a used car? I’m no biker mama.”
Willow grabs the broom from the corner and starts sweeping up crumbs from the dining area. “I have nothing against cars. But those bikers over there are freaking hot. And tbh, used cars are the only way girls like us will ever be able to afford a car, right?”
Willow isn’t wrong, well, except about the girls like us part, since no one with eyes would classify me as a girl.
No such thing as a fifty-year-old girl, I tell myself with a short laugh. I’m not self-conscious about my age, but I put my best years into make a success of my business instead of a success of my love life. “Good point,” I say. But with Cyrus, though, all that is about to change.
“But the guys who sell cars, used or otherwise, can’t be trusted. All they think about is getting that commission. They can’t be trusted. Period.”
I smile again at the authority with which a twenty-three-year-old speaks as if she’s seen the world and has all the answers. “You’re so cynical. And Cyrus isn’t like that. He’s a great guy.”