Just My Luck

Book 2: Kings

by Lena Hendrix

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Unexpected sparks ignite a slow burn in this grumpy/sunshine workplace romance when a single mom proposes a marriage of convenience to save her boss’s brewery.

Fans of Lucy Score, Elsie Silver, Carley Fortune, and B.K. Borrison will find their next obsession with this second standalone in bestselling author Lena Hendrix’s spicy, emotional, deeply romantic Kings Series set in small town Michigan.

You might think it’s reckless for a single mom to enter into a marriage of convenience with her boss.

You would be correct.

To make matters worse, Abel King is a grumpy local brewer with a criminal past. He also happens to be my boss and a total stick-in-the-mud. Every time I come to work with a smile and wave, I’m lucky if I can get a grunt in response.

When I accidentally-on-purpose overhear that he’s having trouble securing a business loan due to his criminal record, I hatch a plan to help the both of us.

The arrangement is perfect—a business transaction and nothing more. Like having a roommate without the hassle of other people bugging you for dates.

I will definitely not be falling in love with him—no matter how many times he says “my wife” and tingles dance in all the right places.

Trouble is, as time goes on, things stop feeling like business and start feeling a whole lot like pleasure . . . and really, that’s just my luck . . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

Getting under my boss’s skin is the second-greatest highlight of my day.

Waking up safely with my twins is the first, of course, but there was just something about knowing I was going to annoy the hell out of Abel King that added a little hitch in my giddyup every morning.

Case in point: I planned to use me running late as the perfect excuse to poke the bear.

“Ben! Tillie! Three minutes!” I called down the hallway of the small, run-down cabin on my granddad’s property, rushing to shove lunches into backpacks.

“Don’t you raise your voice at those kids, Sloaney.” Granddad sat in a recliner that leaned too far to the right and looked dangerously close to collapse. I softened and walked to him, pressing a brief kiss onto the top of his wispy, white-haired head.

“If I recall correctly, you were always quick with an order, and if I didn’t hop to it fast enough, a swat wasn’t far behind.” I crossed my arms and lifted an eyebrow at my granddad.

His bushy brows furrowed as he swatted the air between us. “Ah, what do you know?”

My laugh was bright and quick. Time had softened my grandfather, and we both knew it. My eyes raked over his pajama pants and the rickety TV tray next to him.

It had been over a year since the historic farmhouse Granddad had lived in his entire life burned down while we were sleeping inside. Even so, we’d been struggling to get back on our feet as a family. Both Ben and Tillie had been having issues, and instead of life moving on, I was watching the strongest man I ever knew spend his days rotting in a broken recliner. After the fire we moved into the one-bedroom cabin, and instead of taking the bed, Granddad insisted that he sleep on the recliner.

He had offered us a place to stay after my divorce from Jared, and I brought danger right to his doorstep. My ex and I were kids when we met—some would call us high school sweethearts, but our relationship was tumultuous from the start. If we weren’t running around the San Fernando Valley on our parents’ dime, we were breaking up for the sole purpose of getting back together. His family had made their money in the entertainment business, while my father made his millions as a financial adviser to the world’s wealthiest. When Dad died, it was clear there was no love lost between me and his fourth wife. Other than what Dad had set aside for me, I was cut off. When I got pregnant at twenty-two, Jared’s family insisted on a marriage, and for a while we tried to make it work.

I fought the familiar well of tears and shoved down my unspoken regrets to focus on the one man who’d always been there for me.

“Maybe you should head downtown and see what some of the other old geezers are up to.” I opted for a hopeful smile.

“What do I want to hang around with a bunch of old men for?” Granddad’s grumble would have been endearing if it wasn’t quite so sad.

Resigned, I turned back to the hallway to try to get the kids moving again. “Chickens! Let’s move!”

Tillie was the first to appear in the hallway, coming from the bathroom. Because of the tiny nature of the cabin, the kids and I shared a room, and if we wanted any privacy, we had to change clothes in the tiny bathroom.

Just be thankful you have running water.

I closed my eyes and tried to feel gratitude. Things could have been so much worse, but mornings like these were draining. It was hard to feel like we’d ever get our lives back on track.

After the fire was ruled arson, any progress on rebuilding the farmhouse had come to a screeching halt while both legal and criminal investigations were conducted. In the meantime, we were forced to sit and wait.

“Mama, can you put a bow in my hair?” Tillie was holding up an oversize sequined purple bow. My daughter was still discovering her own personal style—some days she wore baggy overalls and high-tops, others were frilly dresses and hair bows. Her lightly freckled cheeks and thick brown hair reminded me of a tiny version of myself. The only difference was that when I was seven, it was my au pair who’d taken the time to put pretty bows in my hair.

“Of course, baby. Turn around.” Tillie smiled and gave me her back while I secured the bow in her half-up hairstyle. I smoothed the straight strands down her back. “Have you seen your brother?”

“He was dancing naked. Again. So I got dressed in the bathroom.” Tillie was unimpressed with her twin brother’s fascination with thoroughly grossing her out.

I laughed and squeezed her shoulders. “Okay. I’ll get him. Please finish getting your bag together.”

Down the hallway, I stopped in front of the room I shared with the kids. I knocked twice but turned the handle to open the door. There was a mattress tucked into the corner and a makeshift bed on the floor. The queen-size bed wasn’t quite big enough for the three of us, so I’d made a pallet of blankets and pillows to sleep on to keep the kids from having to sleep on the floor.

My heart hurt just looking into the room.

I tried to push past the shame and infuse my voice with sunshine. “Ready to go, bud?”

Ben turned and his eyes went wide as he took me in. “Mom.” His groan had me stifling a laugh. “You cannot drop us off at school wearing that.”

I looked down in mock surprise, feeling a zip of accomplishment at my chosen attire. Seeing Abel nearly pop a blood vessel when I showed up for work in sponge curlers and a bathrobe would be enough enjoyment to carry me through the weekend. Not only did fucking with him make me giggle, but I was convinced it was something he needed too. It seemed like everyone in town was afraid of him, and the man needed to lighten up.

It became my mission to do that, and I took it very seriously. If my outfit was enough to get the attention of a seven-year-old, it was certainly enough to ruffle my grumpy boss’s feathers.

I opened my arms. “What? It’s cozy.”

Ben rolled his eyes and yanked his zip-up hoodie onto his shoulders. He shook his head. “You are so weird.”

I ruffled his nearly white-blond hair as he grumbled past me. “I promise I won’t even get out of the car. I was just running a little behind today, that’s all.”

Herding him out of the bedroom and down the narrow hallway, I turned to my granddad. “You can get them after school, right? I took a double shift and have to work until eight.”

Granddad nodded. “I can take care of the rascals.” He gestured toward them. “Come here.”

Enthusiastically, the twins hugged their great-grandfather. He may be grouchy and set in his ways, but he’d always shown up for us. His home was our safe haven after my divorce, and I owed him everything.

I checked my watch. “Okay, we’re officially late! Let’s go!”

Like herding cats, I rounded up backpacks, grabbed water bottles, and shuffled the twins out the door. True to my word, I didn’t get out of the car and embarrass the kids with my outfit. Instead, I smiled the biggest grin I could and waved as they walked into the elementary school building. Tillie was enveloped by a gaggle of girls, while Ben did what he had done every morning at drop-off—turned back for one last smile and wave.

I watched him walk into the elementary school building with a lump in my throat. The house fire had taken everything from us—almost. I would be grateful every single day for Lee Sullivan and for how he’d found Ben huddled in a closet and had saved his life by jumping out of the second-story window.

As it did every single day, driving away felt nearly impossible, but I reminded myself that he was safe and I had a grump to irritate.

* * *

I checked my reflection one last time. Biting back a smile, I channeled our lord and savior Miss Taylor Alison Swift by painting on a bold red lip. I flipped up the visor in my car and strode into Abel’s Brewery with a little extra swing to my hips.

Fridays meant the craft kitchen opened a few hours early, and patrons would be filling the booths and tables until close. On the outskirts of Outtatowner, Michigan, the brewery was nestled into a large sand dune overlooking North Beach and the vast open waters of Lake Michigan. Abel’s Brewery appealed to the upscale tourist vibe in every way. It was a masculine contrast to the soft whimsy of the beach grass and had large wooden beams and iron accents inside and out. The back wall faced the lake and was lined with glass garage-style doors that opened during the spring, summer, and fall months. It was my favorite feature of the brewery. Fire pits with cushy seating dotted the exterior. Inside, a large double-sided fireplace could add warmth during the chillier winter months.

The luxurious, upscale vibe of the brewery was a stark contrast to its somber owner. Abel King was nothing but dark glowers and heavy sighs. Sometimes I worried my antics were taking it a bit too far, but then I remembered Abel’s little sister Sylvie had become my best friend, and that protected me . . . at least that was what I told myself.

Instead of using the side entrance designated for employees, I sauntered through the main entrance, hoping to make a splash with my appearance.

And make a splash I did.

Like clockwork, Abel was grumbling behind the bar, wiping off surfaces, washing glasses, and arranging everything the bartenders would need for a busy afternoon and evening of serving patrons.

I sneaked a glance from the corner of my eye. Abel King wasn’t just tall; he was massive. With wide shoulders and a tapered waist, most women in town would say he was devastatingly handsome—if they could manage to get past the perpetual storm cloud over his head.

His hair was dark and cut close on the sides, but lately I’d noticed he had let the top grow a little longer than his usual no-nonsense style. Dark eyebrows shadowed his irises, and I hadn’t yet dared get close enough to see if they were brown with hints of something like green or caramel or pitch black, as I’d suspected.

Why am I so drawn to dangerous men?

I tamped down the thought, and with my chin in the air I wove around high-top tables and past intimate high-backed booths that lined the outer perimeter.

My hips sashayed as I walked past the bar. “Morning, boss,” I singsonged as I slipped past him and reached for a glass.

While I filled the glass with water, Abel’s gaze was like a brand on my back. I’d certainly caught his attention. Stifling a giggle, I tightened my grip on the small duffel slung over my shoulder, carrying the work clothes I’d need to eventually change into. Under my robe was nothing but a bra and panties, because when you decide to mess with someone, you commit to the bit.

I took my time sipping the water and acting as if nothing at all was strange about me showing up to work on a Friday looking the way I did.

As I finished my drink, I swallowed with an audible aah and clinked the glass into a wash sink. Satisfied that I had left my ever-serious boss reeling, I had moved to exit behind the bar when his hard, stern voice rolled over my shoulder.

“Sloane.” The deep rumble in such close proximity made me jump.

I scurried out from behind the bar, but in my haste, the loopy bow of my robe snagged. My forward momentum tugged on the belt, sending it tumbling to the floor. I turned, eyes wide with shock as the cold air tickled my skin.

I looked down to see my robe wide open, revealing my very visible nipples through the lacy mesh bra and thong set. My head whipped up to find that Abel also had a clear view of my barely there underwear.

With a yelp, I gripped the sides of the robe and pulled it closed. Heat burned my cheeks as I nearly ran around the bar and toward the back.

This was not at all how I’d seen this going.

Once safely inside the employee bathroom, I flipped on the light and, for the first time since leaving the house, took in my appearance. I looked ridiculous in the furry robe and curlers.

And Abel almost saw you naked.

A fresh wave of embarrassment rolled over me. The prank was supposed to be cheeky and funny, but instead I had flashed my boss wearing nothing but a minuscule thong and mesh bra that broadcasted the temperature of the room at any given moment.

I coughed out a laugh and held my hand over my mouth to keep Abel from hearing me. I needed this job, and I had been busting my ass for months to save up in order to get our lives back on track. The last thing I needed was to get fired for being a clumsy idiot.

Abel’s face had been shocked and embarrassed. Those dark eyes—with flecks of gold, by the way—had pinned to my chest and run all the way down my exposed front for a full beat before flicking back to my face.

Oh, yeah. He’d definitely seen everything.

How the hell was I supposed to face him now? I wanted to crawl into a hole and die a slow, mortifying death.

A hard knock on the door jolted me. “Sloane. We need to talk.”

Oh, shit.

When the front-entrance door to the brewery had swung open, my jaw nearly fell to the floor. You’d think there was a wind machine and background vocals given the way Sloane flounced through the doorway. Her wavy brown hair was done up in hot-pink curlers, and instead of casual work attire, she was still in a bathrobe and fuzzy white slippers.

What in the actual fuck?

Without a second glance, she floated past me, her scent of baked goods and something sweet hanging in the air.

“Morning, boss!” Humor and happiness laced through her feminine greeting. She refused to call me anything but boss no matter how many times I’d told her to call me Abel.

My gaze snagged on the round fullness of her ass as she made her way behind the bar for a glass of water. She swallowed the drink with a flourish before putting the glass in the sink.

“Sloane,” I ground out.

The harsh tone of my voice made her jump and she hurried to leave. And then it happened—a single snag on a rough corner of the bar and her robe fell open.

My blood hummed. Sloane had always been dangerous curves and flirty banter. She was sunshine and laughter. Not even my own frosty exterior seemed to cool her warmth. I had no right, but too often I caught myself leaning into her presence like a flower getting its first taste of morning sunlight.

And now she was exposed, right in front of me.

I was her boss, and instead of looking away, I stared at her tits and followed the smooth line of her stomach to the swatch of fabric covering her pussy.

I felt sick.

And really fucking turned on.

Disgusted at myself, I slapped the rag onto the bar and stomped down the hallway after her. I stopped at the bathroom door, listening to her quiet movements through the wall.

I raised my fist and let it fall heavy on the wooden door. “Sloane. We need to talk.”

After a moment it cracked open. One green and gold hazel eye looked up at me as Sloane peeked out of the slit in the door.

“Did you need something?” Her voice was feathery and light.

I bit back a groan. “Sloane, I . . .” How the hell do I navigate this?

I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry if I—” Fuck.

I tried a stern approach. “Casual Friday is—” The words escaped me.

Honestly, I didn’t give a fuck what she wore to work, but there’d be no way in hell I could concentrate without thinking about the nothingness underneath that bathrobe. “Damn it.”

Her eyes widened and she blinked, a small smile spread across her red lips. Clearly she was enjoying my internal meltdown.

I racked my brain for a single logical thought before giving up altogether. “I’ll be in the front if you need me.”

I turned and walked away, shaking my head and all thoughts of Sloane’s naked body from my mind. Trouble was, Sloane Robinson was a walking, talking pain in my ass. From day one I’d regretted hiring her as a favor to my sister Sylvie. But what choice did I have? I’d never been able to say no to Sylvie. When she looked at me, it was like she saw a better man standing in my shoes. My sister was quiet and often faded into the background of this town despite being one of the most tenderhearted people I knew. After everything that had happened, she was the first person to tell me things would be okay.

I didn’t believe her, but the thought was nice.

Now, with Sloane working for me and showing up to confirm my suspicions that she was as gorgeous naked as she was clothed, I had managed to exchange one prison for another.

Once back in the safety of the taproom, I grabbed the rag and continued polishing the wood bar. The white furry belt of Sloane’s robe was crumpled in a pile at the corner of the bar. I reached down and ran it through my fingers. A soft, silent laugh pushed out of my nose as I felt a tug at the corner of my mouth.

Sloane had a way of poking at me that was equal parts irritating and endearing—almost like she’d lent me some of her lightness for even the briefest of moments. It was a kindness I rarely received, even in my own hometown.

Outtatowner, Michigan, had been a dream location to grow up. Nestled in the beachy coastline of Western Michigan, we had it all—good fishing, sandy beaches, and enough family money to not take life too seriously. Tourists floated in and out of our town throughout the year, which meant there were always new girls to meet and friends to make.

For most kids, it was a dream come true. But most kids didn’t have Russell King as their father. My siblings and I grew up with our dad being detached and absent. His harsh words were swift and cutting, but we’d adored our mother and lamented the days when business would bring Dad back home. That is, until one morning I woke up and my mother was gone.

She left you and she isn’t coming back. Maybe if you’d been the man of the house in my absence, she would have stayed.

Four days before my twelfth birthday, my mother vanished, and nothing was ever the same. My father’s words sliced through me as I floated through middle school without direction. I was hurt, angry. I found solace in solitude and work. Then one night, years later, my life fractured again.

Driven by anger, stubbornness, and poor decisions, my actions turned my world upside down and took a life.

I scrubbed at the bar top, certain my incessant circles would wear a hole in the wood eventually. My jaw ached from gritting my teeth.

I worked twice as hard to stomp out any ridiculous thoughts of Sloane. She was my employee and my little sister’s best friend. She was a mother and had been hit with hard times this year. Her working at my brewery was a favor and nothing more.

Still, for the rest of the day, the memory of her red-lipped smile and bare skin flashed into my head and settled into my gut.

* * *

When most people walk down Main Street in Outtatowner, they’re greeted with friendly smiles and waves. Not me. Not the man branded a criminal and a murderer.

They wouldn’t be wrong either.

It was solely because of the grace of my father and his savvy business sense that I even had a job after prison, let alone a thriving brewery.

I learned early on that Russell demanded results above all else, so I busted my ass to turn a fledgling brewery into a premier taproom and craft kitchen that tourists and townies alike could enjoy. They didn’t need to like me in order to appreciate the time and care I put into brewing each flavor profile.

Only after I had proved myself did he offer even a modicum of approval. Irritation rolled through me. At least in state prison I had to worry about only myself. Here I had the weight of the King name pressing down on my shoulders.

The brewery might be named Abel’s Brewery, but it would always be his.

The thought grated on me. My dad controlled everything and everyone. It had only been in the last year, when my sister Sylvie had defied him in every way, that the threads of our family had started to unravel.

My sister had the audacity to befriend and have a baby with a son of the Kings’ most hated rivals—the Sullivans. Generations of pranks and general chaos between the families defined our town, but Sylvie and Duke’s relationship had slowly begun to dismantle it all.

My father was no longer talking with our sister, but the rest of us had banded around her. Only then had we fully begun to see the cracks in Russell King’s armor. They were minuscule, but they were there.

My long legs carried me through the midday sunshine, and my steps pounded up the sidewalk. Two women walked ahead of me in the opposite direction. When we caught eyes, I offered a flat-lipped smile and nod. You’d have thought I flashed a gun or bared my teeth at the way the women glued to each other and hurried past me while sneaking wary glances in my direction.

Everyone knew I had done time, but few knew the details. Had they known, I wouldn’t just be an outcast; I’d be a pariah. After prison, my consequence was being shunned by my own hometown.

But I deserved it.

“Abe!” My name caught my attention, and my head swiveled around to see my younger brother Royal exiting his tattoo parlor. Younger than me by two years, Royal was tall and built, like all King men. Tattoos peeked out from under his short sleeves and ran down past his wrists and over his hands. Ink even bled out above his collar. Had he not run a lucrative tattoo shop, I’m sure our father would have plenty to say about his appearance.

Royal’s sharp features carried a dangerous edge to him that could cut a man down with a single look. That is, until he opened his mouth.

“Out of the cave scaring tourists already?” His shit-eating grin spread wide as he leaned against the brick wall to his shop.

A silent stare was my only response.

Royal laughed, unfazed by my brooding. “Figured. Where are you headed?”

My jaw ticced. My plan was still in its infancy, and I wasn’t ready to share it with anyone, since it likely wouldn’t go anywhere. “Out.”

“Whatever.” Royal rolled his eyes. “Syl texted about a dinner on the farm tonight. MJ is off work, so she’ll be there too. You in?”

A dinner at my sister’s house meant playing nice with her husband, Duke Sullivan. He probably wouldn’t be too happy if he knew I’d helped source the glitter that was stuffed into the air vents of his truck. While Sylvie made us all promise we’d get along for her and little Gus, it didn’t mean we couldn’t have a little fun fucking with them.

Still, seeing my little sister as a mom did something to my chest. August was adorable, even if he was half-Sullivan.

“Yeah, I’m in,” I said.

Royal grinned. “Good. And text her back. She worries about you.”

Shoulders slumped, I nodded and headed in the direction of the bank.

The Outtatowner bank was on the far east end of town and a long fucking walk. Sure, I could have driven, but getting behind the wheel was still a challenge, even after all this time. Instead, I took the mild weather as an opportunity for a long walk to think.

The lobby of the bank was drab and soulless. The familiar scent of coffee clung to the air, and the hushed shuffle of paperwork greeted me, creating an odd mix of anticipation. It was a risk even going to the bank for fear someone would casually bring up my presence to my father.

Still, something needed to change.

“Mr. King?” a polite receptionist called into the tiny waiting area.

I unfolded myself from the too-small wooden chair and watched as her eyes went wide and she craned her neck to meet my stare.

“Um,” she stammered. “Right this way.”

Like a dog with his head hung low, I followed her to the glass wall of offices in the back corner of the bank. The receptionist opened the door and gestured inside. “Mr. Lowell, your two thirty is here.”

The office was filled with heavy oak furniture and framed diplomas. Stephen Lowell stood from behind his desk and extended his hand. “Mr. King.”

I gripped his hand and shook. “Abel, please.”

With a nod, Mr. Lowell sat behind his desk and eased back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Abel?”

As I settled into the chair, my hands involuntarily tightened on the armrests. “I’m seeking a business loan.” The truth tighten. . .