Page 1 of Sweet on the Alpha

Chapter 1

Grace

The scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls wraps around me like a warm hug as I step into Sweet Curves Bakery. My bakery. I smile and almost giggle to myself, giddy even after five years of owning the place.

I flip on the lights, illuminating the cozy interior, and the glow crashes through the early morning darkness. Mismatched tables and chairs are scattered across the aged and worn hardwood floor, each topped with a brightly colored vase bursting with seasonal blooms from Lily’s Flower Shop down the street. Blackand white photos of Maplewood Grove through the decades line the exposed brick walls, a tribute to the town I love almost as much as I love my little place.

Humming to myself, happiness nearly bursting from me at the prospect of the day ahead, I pop behind the counter and begin prepping for the day. I expertly twist my honey-blonde hair into a messy bun and don a pink polka-dot apron over my favorite sundress, the one that always makes me feel pretty even on my most hectic mornings.

“Alexa, shuffle my ‘Sweet Jams’ playlist,” I call out. Upbeat music fills the bakery as I pull trays of muffins, scones, and cupcakes from the cooler, artfully arranging them in the display case. I shake my ass to the beat, dancing my way across the bakery as I set up for the day, the hem of my dress flipping and flaring with my every move.

I pause a moment to admire a batch of my famous “Voluptuous Vanilla Cupcakes,” each one a perfect swirl of ivory frosting atop a golden cake. Plump, moist, and bursting with flavor, they’re a customer favorite and a personal specialty.

As I’m wrapping my prep, a flash of movement outside the wall-to-wall window catches my eye. I peer out to see a moving truck parked in front of the old Victorian house across the street. This street is dotted with a mix of aged homes and little shops. Movers in blue uniforms hustle back and forth unloading furniture and boxes.

“Well, what do you know,” I murmur, a grin splitting my lips. “Looks like I’m finally getting that new neighbor. Took ’em long enough.”

The house, a grand dame with deep blue siding and crisp white trim, has been empty since old Mrs. Hawkins passed away last year. I’ve always admired its towering spires and scalloped shingles, a whimsical contrast to the sleek red and chrome of my bakery. I’m glad to see it coming back to life.

An idea sparks and I snap my fingers. “The perfect welcome gift!”

With the front of my store set for the day, I dash to the kitchen and gather ingredients for an assortment of freshly baked goodies. As I measure, mix, and scoop, I let my mind wander, imagining what my new neighbor might be like. The real estate gossips have been oddly tight-lipped about the buyer. Dammit. All I know is that they paid cash and didn’t haggle over the price.

Before long, I have rows of piping hot zucchini walnut, blueberry crumble, and honey vanilla bean muffins cooling on the rack.Mmm… the mingled scents make my mouth water.

I snag a basket and fill it with muffins, tying a gingham bow around the handle. I struggle to ignore the nervous flutter in my stomach as I step out the back door.It’s just a new neighbor, I tell myself firmly.Nothing to get worked up about.

But as I approach the Victorian’s wraparound porch, my heart pounds like I’ve just run a marathon in my pink kitten heels. I nearly snort. As if.

The summer breeze, usually so refreshing, feels stifling, the air thick and electric.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice coming out breathless.Embarrassing, I mentally singsong. “Anyone home?”

For a moment, there’s no response. Then, the front door swings open and I find myself face-to-face with a man so strikingly handsome, he steals the breath from my lungs.

Well, more like face-to-chest. But the handsome comment stands. Though the longer I stare, I’m thinkinghotmight be a better descriptor.

He’s tall, so tall I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. His broad shoulders and muscular arms strain against the fabric of his plain white T-shirt, hinting at a physique honed by hard labor. Thick, dark hair falls in tousled waves around a chiseled face that belongs on the cover of a magazine. But it’s his eyes that make my knees turn to jelly. They’re a startling shade of green, deep and vivid as a forest glade, framed by long, sooty lashes. For a dizzying moment when they meet mine, I swear I see a flash of gold, there and gone like a trick of light.

“Hel…hello!” I manage to squeak out, thrusting the basket toward him like a shield. “I’m Grace Carter from Sweet Curves next door. I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood!”

His gaze flicks to the basket of muffins and then back to my face. His brow creases as a muscle in his jaw tics. He looks… annoyed? I brace myself for a gruff rebuff to go along with the near-glare.

“Nice to meet you,” he rasps instead, his voice a dark, honeyed rumble that zings straight down my spine. “I’m Aiden Donahue. And I don’t take charity.”

His words are gruff, but there’s no real venom in his tone. Just a sort of weary resignation, like he’s had this conversation a thousand times and this makes a thousand and one.

“Oh! They’re not charity!” I hurry to assure him, a wide smile gracing my lips. I can’t help but smile at the pretty, pretty, deliciously handsome man as I speak. Something might be wrong with me. “They’re a welcome gift. From one neighbor to another. I always say there’s nothing quite like a homemade muffin to make a new place feel like home.”

One corner of his mouth twitches like he might almost smile, but he tamps it down. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. You should give them to someone who’ll enjoy them.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been told my honey vanilla bean muffins are to die for.” Then I flash him my best winsome smile, the one that charms even my grumpiest customers.

Aiden just stares at me, utterly unmoved. What is up with that? “Quite sure, thanks. Look Miss… Carter, was it? It’s nice of youto welcome me and all, but I’m not here to make friends. I’d appreciate it if you’d just… leave me be. All right?”

With that, he steps back and shuts the door firmly in my shocked face. I stand there blinking, the heavy basket dangling from my arm, and the sweet, spicy scent of the muffins suddenly turns my stomach.

“Well,” I mutter as I turn to go. My pride is more than a little dented, but my sassy pants are firmly in place, so I can’t help but yell through the closed door. “Welcome to Maplewood Grove, Mr. Aiden Grumpy Pants. Enjoy your empty house and your cold, muffin-less existence!”

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