Red Hot Alphas: 11 Novels of Sexy, Bad Boy, Alpha Males (Red Hot Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  I didn’t do breakfast. Considering my need to taste every single thing I made—strictly for quality purposes, of course—I needed to save the calories for the shop. After having gone through my routine, I slipped into a sensible pair of walking shoes and tucked my wallet into my back pants’ pocket. Purses are for housewives, of which I am not.

  “Check you later, Wilber.” Wilber, my hairless cat, stretched across the couch cushion he occupied, turned his considerably chubby belly toward the ceiling, and gave me a bored yawn—his silent command for me to vacate the premises.

  Shaking my head, I yanked open the front door and stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Good morning, ma’am. Would you like to buy some cookies?”

  I looked down at the fat-faced child covered in freckles peddling her boxes of sin, and narrowed my eyes. “Didn’t I tell you last year not to come around here again?”

  Innocent blue eyes peered up at me, completely unaffected by the chill in my voice. “Mom told me that you were a shoe-in for at least one box.”

  I spluttered, indignant that anyone would assume such a thing about me. Once, in a moment of weakness, I bought an entire stock of Girl Scout cookies. Once. “Now you listen here,” I said sharply as I reached into my pocket and withdrew my wallet. “You tell your mother that I don’t appreciate her presumptuousness.” Glancing behind her, I felt my willpower crumble beneath the allure of purple and green boxes filled with chewy goodness. How did one choose?

  “Now, since I’ve taken a vow to never raise my hand to a child, you let your mother know that I won’t make the same promise to her, should she dare to cross my path.” Handing her a wad of cash, I pointed to her completely stereotypical little red wagon. “Give me the whole lot. Actually, you’d better leave one,” I amended. “I don’t want the neighbors to think I’m greedy.” Yes, I was falling for the deviltry of baked goods, but who could blame me? The cookies practically sold themselves.

  Having been a loyal customer for so long, she didn’t question it. Skipping down the step, the girl took up the handle to her wagon. She turned a brilliant smile on me. “Thanks, Aunt Abby.”

  I couldn’t help it. I smiled. “You’re welcome, sweetie. And good job with your presentation. The wagon adds a nice touch.” Passing me box after box, I leaned inside the open door and deposited them on the table that served as a catch-all. Once the last box was stacked, I closed the door and locked it behind me. Stepping down beside her, I ruffled her mop of curly red hair. “Now go con someone else out of their hard-earned dough. I have to get to work.”

  “Are you opening the shop today?” she asked my retreating back.

  “Sure am,” I called over my shoulder. “I’ll save you a donut, and don’t forget to tell your mom what I said!”

  “I won’t!”

  “And tell her I’ll be there Sunday. I’ve got dessert covered.”

  My shop was located two blocks from my condo—perfect walking distance. As I rounded the corner my eyes fell on the little slice of heaven I had carved for myself. Along the strip of conjoined brownstone shops, mine stood at the end. The understated sign with the name Sweetest Temptations in elegant powder pink scrolling letters set against a chocolate brown background and a couple of tiny, decorative cupcakes, bookending each word, hung above the door. It was duplicated in the large window and again on the double-sided sign I would place on the sidewalk later. If customers didn’t know I was there, tripping over the sign would surely tip them off.

  I sighed contentedly. Oh, yeah, this was right where I belonged. Ever since Grandma Alice took me under her wing, teaching me the fine art of baking, it’d been a dream of mine to own my own bakery. And it was finally happening.

  I’d worked for years—slaving away in culinary school, being beaten down, told my food wasn’t even fit for rats to eat—to get here. A sense of triumph rippled through me every time I set eyes on my accomplishment. Grandma Alice would be proud.

  Unlocking the front door, the little bell hanging over the door announced my arrival. Too bad I was the only one there. I paused to soak in the atmosphere. The walls were painted a rich yellow. Photos of my recipes, baked to perfection, were framed and hung every three feet. Five small, metal bistro sets were interspersed throughout the small space, standing out against the terra cotta tiled floors. At the back of the room, a long counter sat, piled high with boxes, various types of wrappings, bags, and an old fashioned cash register that I’d picked up at an antique store a while back. Beyond that, a wall lined with enclosed clear display cabinets stood, already half-filled with cookies, cakes, and other goods that would stay fresh overnight.

  Since it was too much work to bake everything as it was needed, I had decided the best course of action was to do what I could at the end of the night to prep for the following morning, and bake throughout the day to keep up with traffic.

  Good lord, please let there be traffic.

  Since I’d already spent the last week readying the place, the only thing left to do was fire up the ovens and get started on making the muffins.

  At nine a.m. sharp, I brushed flour from my hands, flipped the locks on the door, turned the sign over declaring Sweetest Temptations open for business, and marched outside to place another sign in the middle of the sidewalk.

  Now, the only thing left to do was wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Nearly two hours passed and I was firmly planted in a chair I’d stolen from one of the dining sets, halfway through reading an article on how to please my non-existent man, when a throat cleared.

  “Hold on one sec,” I said, holding up a finger. Was it really a turn-on to greet your man at the door wearing saran wrap? That seemed….vacuum packed. I immediately chucked the idea and the magazine. The only thing I would be saran wrapping was cakes and pies. “Can I help you?”

  Standing, I reached under the counter and pulled on a pair of thin plastic gloves from the box I kept there. I turned on my bright, I’m-here-to-serve-you smile and aimed it at my very first customer. “Oh…my.” The words weren’t intended to leave my mouth.

  Standing before me was the most insanely beautiful man I had ever seen. He was everything a woman with a healthy libido and functioning imagination searched for in a man, but rarely got. Tall, at least six feet. Lean, but thick. I could tell this was the kind of guy who took care of himself. He had that whole dark and dangerous look going, too, with the black as night hair that was finger combed in that I-just-got-laid style women swooned over, clean shaven, clear blue eyes the color of a swimming pool that I craved to jump into, and a mouth that I could see myself licking like frosting on a cupcake.

  Those sinful lips turned up in a smile that, had I been wearing any socks, would have knocked them clean off my toes. Holy mother, this guy was hot!

  “Hot?” he asked me, and I felt my eyes bulge. I did not voice that thought, did I? He must have caught my look of horror because the next thing he said was, “You’re fanning your shirt. I figured you might be hot.”

  Looking down, I saw my hand gripping tight to my t-shirt, tugging at it, fluffing the fabric and creating a cool breeze against my damp cleavage. “Ovens,” I explained, smiling ruefully. “Gets me every time.” What the hell was I saying?

  A soft chuckle spilled out of him and I found myself leaning a little closer to catch every deep, husky note. Glancing over my shoulder, he eyed my selection of treats. “Are those blueberry muffins?”

  “Yep, fresh out of the oven this morning.” Sensing a sale, I began preparing a bakery box.

  “I’ll take one of those, and…” He scanned the shelves. “A dozen assorted donuts.”

  “Any kind?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder.

  Those blue eyes lifted from their southerly position and landed back on me. He gave me a slow smile. Was he checking me out? Mother, shoot me now, ‘cause I was this close to throwing myself across that counter and kissing him senseless. “Any kind.”

  Biting my lip to
keep from smiling, I turned and selected a raspberry-filled, a couple of the glazed, custard, and some sprinkled ones to round out the bunch, then closed the box and slid it across the counter. “Anything else I can get you today?” Please say sex. I needed it, badly. The last time I had any was…Yeah, I couldn’t even remember the last time. I was pathetic. I was in need. Give it to me, big boy.

  “Nope, that’ll be it.”

  Damn. Had I been expecting him to say me? On the floor, right here, right now? The plummeting sensation in my gut said yes. Yes, I had. How incredibly disappointing.

  I gave him the total and he passed me his cash. A man who carried actual cash. In a world of plastic, he was a rare find, indeed. “You have a good day now.” I pushed his box across the counter, making sure that when he grabbed it, our fingers touched. I felt that telltale zip of electricity race through my fingertips and up my arm, traveling a quick path to the hot spot now pulsing between my legs. Oh, yes, chemistry was in the making.

  “Same to you.” He gave me one last blinding smile and turned to leave, brushing by another customer who had just walked through the door. The ping! of the bell announced them and I prepared to fill another order.

  I waited a beat, watching him walk away, admiring the way his tight ass fit into those worn blue jeans, waiting for him to look back, just once, to confirm what I felt. But no. He never did. Just walked out that door. Ping! Gone.

  Maybe it was just static electricity I had been feeling. With a mental shrug, I got out a fresh box. “What can I get you today?”

  Chapter 2

  “I can’t believe you bought the whole lot of them!”

  I was out to lunch with my best girlfriend, Hope, and she was a generous mix of enthused and outraged. I could understand why. We were supposed to be on a diet. We held each other accountable. But as I pushed the salad around my plate, I couldn’t deny that I wasn’t cut out for rabbit food. I needed meat. I needed carbs. I needed my sugary fix. It was a matter of survival, as any red-blooded woman would attest.

  “Then that makes two of you,” I said, trying to laugh off her comment. “My mother about had a coronary when Amy told her what I did.” My sister had a big mouth, but could I really expect her not to share my trespasses with Mom? Not really. In the three years that my niece, Ariel, had been a girl scout, I had bought her out once, but with the way my Mom overreacted, you’d think I’d done it each and every time. But it was the mark of a good person to support their family, and that’s exactly what I did.

  “Of course she did,” Hope cried, waving a breadstick in the air. “She’s worried about your health. And you should be, too.” She gave me an earnest look that I couldn’t meet. I hated it when she tried to make me feel guilty. “I thought we were in this together?”

  “Look, Hope,” I started, setting down my fork and sitting back in the chair. “Just because I bought a shit ton of cookies doesn’t mean I plan on eating them in one sitting. I know how to control myself.” She gave me a disbelieving look. “I do! How do you explain the twenty-eight pounds I’ve lost already?”

  She frowned and looked away. “Yeah, I guess. I just don’t want to see you fall off the wagon. I need you on the wagon with me.”

  Poor, poor willpower challenged Hope. Reaching across the table, I covered her hand with mine. “I’m on the wagon. I’m not going to fall off.” To prove it, I picked up my fork and stabbed a mound of leafy greens, then shoved them into my mouth. “Mmmm,” I moaned dramatically.

  Laughing, I watched as Hope’s concerns vanished. “So, about this guy. Has he come back?”

  The first thing I did after closing the shop doors Monday evening was call Hope and fill her in on the delicious man, my first customer. We combed over the details, swooning over fantasies we conjured up surrounding him. Maybe he was a businessman and he was sampling my goods before he sampled my goods. One could only hope! Or, maybe he was another sweets addicted person like me—the perfect Clyde to my Bonnie. Together we could eat our weight in chocolate and confections and die obese but happy in one another’s arms.

  Okay, not a very romantic fantasy, but workable.

  The biggest question surrounding him was, why so many donuts? Were they for coworkers? His children? A wife?

  He hadn’t come in since, so I couldn’t ask. Not that I ever would. Hey, are you married or something? just didn’t seem like a good conversation starter. “Nope, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair,” I said regretfully.

  “Depressing. Well, what about dinner tonight? I’m sure Amy has something on tap for you.”

  I felt my face twist into a grimace. Sunday dinners at the Saunders household had become such a farce since my sister decided that I needed to be married off. The sooner the better, apparently. Since early May, nearly four months ago, she’d been trying to set me up, and she used our traditional dinner nights as her matchmaking venue. Not that I minded…much. I was just like any normal girl. I wanted someone to come home to at night. Someone to share my day with. Someone to make me feel special and loved. Being single had its perks, but I didn’t want to die alone. I wanted the fairytale. I wanted to be swept off my feet, but so far, no luck.

  “If the last sixteen are any indication of what to expect, then tonight is not a prospect I look forward to.” The last one was a bald and overweight man who still lived at home with his parents. He was a nice enough guy, but so not my type. Not to mention that each bite of food he took resulted in an open-mouthed show and tell. It still gave me the twitches just thinking about it.

  “Maybe you’re just closed off to the idea of being set up?” Hope suggested, which was not helpful at all. I wasn’t closed off. I was selective. Big difference. “Have you ever gone on a date with any of them?”

  “I thought dinner was a date?” I shot her a playful smile and chomped off a bit of breadstick, savoring the flavor of garlic butter and salt bathing my tongue.

  “At your sister’s house?” Amy scoffed. “I meant alone, just the two of you.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I consider my sister’s dining table as Ground Zero. If he can’t successfully spark my interest, it begins and ends there.”

  “Brutal,” Hope teased.

  “Fact,” I shot back. Until a man could tantalize my senses as well as a fine piece of dark chocolate, then these panties were staying right where they were: wedged halfway up my ass crack. Damn high cut briefs.

  As it turned out, those words came back to haunt me.

  Later that evening, just after six, I arrived at my sister’s home carrying my famous homemade coffee cake that everyone loved. I hoped whoever Amy tried to set me up with this time didn’t have a severe allergy to nuts; otherwise, he was screwed. And not in the way that he was probably hoping for.

  “Aunt Abby’s here!” My red-headed niece, Ariel—I’m convinced her mother was in a drug-induced fog when she chose her name—squealed as she came bouncing into the room.

  Holding the cake away from my body, I bent to catch her in a quick hug. “Hey, squirt. Where’s your momma?”

  Ariel looked up at me, her wide blue eyes round and full of life. Ah, to be a child again. “In the kitchen.” Her voice dropped to a small whisper. “She’s talking to a really cute man.”

  I felt that crimp in my stomach. The one that screamed Get out! Get out now! With a tight smile, I straightened and asked, “Oh? On a scale of the guy who played Shaggy, and Zac Effron, how cute are we talking here?”

  Her cheeks puffed as she smiled wide. “Cute like that guy you like in that one movie that mommy always watches.” Yeah, real helpful kid.

  “Care to narrow that down a bit?”

  Her blue eyes slid to a corner of the room, thinking hard. When she finally had something, I caught that pleased gleam in her eyes. “The guy that never wears a shirt and yells This is Sparta! and then kicks the other guy into the hole.”

  Oh, that guy. I felt a ray of hope glimmer to life. “Gerard Butler?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, all care
free in a way that was cute as much as it was annoying. How could she not care? This was Gerard Butler we were talking about here.

  Setting the cake aside for a moment, I got down on her level. Taking her by the shoulders, I forced her to look me in the eyes. “Now this is really important, Ariel,” I said slow and serious. I could see that her squirrel-like attention span was already waning. “I need you to tell Aunt Abby exactly what this man looks like. Is he fat and bald? Tall, short…?” I felt the urge to shake the answers free, but then I’d have to explain to a hysterical Amy that I wasn’t trying to abuse her child, and that could just get messy.

  “Umm…” Ariel looked away, toward her pile of Barbies. “Daddy bought me a new Ken! He has black hair and he’s tall and when I put water on him, he grows hair on his face.”

  I sighed and stood, realizing I had already lost her. Poor kid. Patting her on the head, I gave her a gentle push toward her toys.

  Picking up the cake once more, I tugged my shirt into place and brushed my hand over my hair, hoping everything was in place. If what Ariel said was true, that this guy was cuter than Gerard Butler, then—God love her—I was going to kick my sister’s ass.

  She’d spent so much time lowering my expectations that I hadn’t even bothered with putting on makeup or fixing my hair before coming over. I still wore a slight sheen of sweat from putting my head inside a hot oven for ten hours and my hair was a frizzy mess piled in a loose bun on top of my head. Not exactly a picture of perfection.

  Ariel was already lost in her world of make-believe, so I headed toward the kitchen and the sound of disembodied voices.

  I saw my sister first, smiling happily as she piled a mound of mashed potatoes into a large serving bowl. Her husband, Doug, stood with his back propped against the edge of the sink, a beer in hand and laughing over a joke I’d missed. Last, my attention was drawn to the deep, male voice.

  My body froze in the doorway, unable to believe my eyes.

  Fucking hell. Holding a beer in his right hand, the hot guy who’d bought my donuts was talking animatedly, gesticulating wildly, his eyes dancing with laughter. Dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a plain white cotton shirt, I decided two things. One, he was the most fuckable man I had ever laid eyes on, and, two, Amy was a dead woman.