That’s it, I’m screwed.
She takes one of the boxes from my hands, winks, then turns abruptly, her hips savagely swaying like they’re enticing me to chase after her as she retreats through the doorway. She has no idea that she’s not only stealing my breath, but also my heart with every delicate step she takes in those cute little polka dot Converse shoes she’s wearing.
Fuck! I’m not just screwed… I’m royally fucked!
ChapterFive
Mindy
Shock.
It’s the only thing I feel while looking around my shop and seeing the empty racks and displays. I sold out of everything on my first day, all because of a strange biker named Krampus with eyes so dreamy I haven't been able to stop thinking about them. Hard like granite, those eyes seem to penetrate parts of me that have been dormant for far too long. I love the way his eyes glint in my shop’s lights, too. Loving the way the blue shimmers like untouched waves sparkling in the sunlight. He barely shows them off, which is such a travesty. A man that handsome shouldn’t be hiding behind a mask; he should be strutting around getting all the attention.
I’m so busy trying to compose myself that I don’t hear the bell chime or the heavy boots marching into my store.
I practically come out of my shoes when Moseley suddenly appears in front of me, surrounded by his men, all of them looking rather disappointed at my empty shelves.
“Jeepers, you scared the biscuits out of me, Mr. Mosely,” I shout, clutching my chest to protect my heart that’s suddenly thundering in fear. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You sold out of everything?” he questions angrily. I don’t like his tone or the way he’s nibbling on that toothpick as he leers at me with his beady little eyes. “You promised me a pie, Ms. St. John.”
Luckily, I was smart enough to keep at least one of my famous apple pies from Krampus and his crew, knowing I did promise it to my landlord yesterday.
“Oh no, Mr. Moseley, I actually saved one for you, just like I promised.” Producing the pie from one of my storage cabinets, I happily present it to him.
Another look of disappointment toys with his lips as he takes the pie, staring at it like it might be poisoned. “Thanks,” he says, sucking on his teeth again. “How much do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house,” I reply cheerily. “It’s the least I can do for everything you’ve done for me.”
He smirks. “It’s been my pleasure, Ms. St. John.” He toys with the hair on his mouth, his smile reflecting in the overhead lights as it gleams off his one gold tooth. He holds out his hand, showing off a large silver ring that’s encompassing most of his stubby ring finger. It looks expensive—too expensive to be hanging out on someone’s finger all day.
“I’m going to ask you something, Ms. St. John, and I want you to answer me truthfully.” His tone is a bit off-putting, almost like he’s reprimanding a small child.
“Sure, what can I help you with, Sir?”
“Am I wrong, or did I see those bastard Elm Street Rider thugs taking out all your stock?”
“Um, I'm not sure what you mean, Mr. Moseley?”
He’s back to twisting his stupid mustache. “Well, my dear, you’re new to town, and you may not know this yet, but we havea bit of a motorcyclegangproblem in Fernley. Some clubs you should stay far away from, and the Elm Street Riders is one of them. Trouble follows them wherever they go.”
“To be honest, Mr. Moseley, I didn’t get a good look at what club they were with, but if they were trouble, I didn’t catch that vibe. One of them actually bought all my product. He didn’t want me to not sell anything on my first day.”
“I see,” he mumbles. “Well, as your landlord, I’m going to advise you to steer clear of them. I wouldn’t want a pretty girl like you to get tangled up with a bunch of bullies.”
“I appreciate the advice, but like I said before, I didn’t catch that vibe. Maybe you just don’t know them all that well?”
He’s back to scowling again. “You should be careful of who you trust, Ms. St. John. There are men in this world who are capable of things that would make you clutch your pearls.”
The old-timey reference makes me giggle. “I will keep that in mind. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
He picks at his teeth with his toothpick. “Well, there is the percentage you owe me that we need to deal with.”
“Percentage?”
“It’s in your lease you signed when leasing the building from me. Call it a renter’s fee if you want. Twenty percent of everything you sell comes to me.”
My stomach twists. “I don’t remember that being in the lease agreement…”
