Sweet Cherry Read Online Lola Finn

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30126 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)

Piping hot, mouth-watering, and sinfully delicious—and I’m not even talking about my desserts.

All I wanted was a quiet, profitable day in my gourmet chocolate shop. That all goes to hell when he crashes into my life under a hail of gunfire. Hawk is dark, dangerous, and sexy as sin, and I just became his unsuspecting hostage.
Now I’m a captive in a war between two rival biker gangs. Even worse? Hawk has declared me as his.
A girl like me shouldn’t want anything to do with this rough and vicious biker. He’s possessive, alpha af, and has the filthiest mouth. But something about the way he dominates me, the way he’s hard in all the right places, it has me second guessing everything.
And now, even if I do make it out of this war with my life, I fear I won’t make it out with my heart.


Chapter One


“No, no, no!”

I rush over to the stove top, dragging the boiling pot off the burner and turning the heat down. But it’s no use. The sugar that was to be homemade caramel is burnt to a crisp, and the smell of it alone will send customers running.

Tossing the dish rag over my shoulder, I groan and drop my head into my hands. The opening of my very own chocolate shop was supposed to be my way out of a shitty situation. I found the perfect little corner shop, secured the loan, bought all the cute knick-knacks and display cases and even an old time cash register that makes a dinging sound when it opens.

I wasn’t relying on anyone but me anymore.

But so far, it’s only been one disaster after another, and unless things turn around soon, I’m afraid my dream will crash and burn—just about as bad as the singed caramel that has permanently become one with the sauce pan it was “cooking” in.

The buzzer goes off, and I move to the oven to remove the bundt cakes. At least those turned out beautifully. Of course, I’ve been making them since I was a little girl with my grandmother.

As I’m sliding the last cake off the tray onto the cooling rack, the ding of the front door makes my belly flip. It still happens with every customer even though I’ve been open for just over six months. The idea that people see the sign out front for Melted Love or my treats when they walk in is wild to me.

Being so new, I can’t afford help yet, so I drop the oven mitt on the counter and rush up front through the swinging door. A woman with curly, gray hair looks up at me over her glasses as I approach the counter.

“Welcome to Melted Love,” I say with a smile. “How can I help you?”

Her eyes narrow, sweeping over the display case. The individual chocolates are perfectly arranged, the fudge is in precise rows, and the chocolate cake is strategically missing a single piece in its elevated case beside the register.

“Just looking,” she answers after several passes. “I’ll sample the fudge.”

I quickly nod, rushing to the case to retrieve a small square with a toothpick sticking from the center. “What type would you like to try?”

Her eyebrow rises, and she presses her finger to the glass. “That one.”

Ignoring the print I’ll need to clean, I hand her the marshmallow swirl.

She pops the entire thing in her mouth in one go. Then her face pinches, and she sets the toothpick on the counter. Her scowl lands on me again. “How about the one beside it.”

This continues through every type of fudge until she has a pile of toothpicks in front of her.

“Can I wrap anything up for you?” I ask as she finishes chewing the double double chocolate.

She shakes her head. “Not today.”

And then she walks out of my shop having sampled for twenty minutes.

“Never come back,” I coo long after she’s out of earshot.

My eyes close, and I take a centering breath, reminding myself that one customer will not define the day I’m having.

The shattering of glass echoes through the shop, and I wrench my eyes in time to watch my store front window rain down onto the black and white tiled floor. This time, I hear the gunshot, followed by the crack of another window.

It’s disorienting as the bullets start to bite up everything they touch. Stuffing from chairs flies, pieces of wood and glass.

I stand there, frozen, even though my mind is screaming at me to get down. But all I can do is look around as the gun fire closes in. My mind and body are in shock as bullets fly around me, each shot like a jolt to my chest—everything in slow motion as it rips to pieces around me. Then he appears outside the window, dark jeans and a black shirt, and jumping through the frame of broken glass.