Page 6 of Property of Blade (Kings of Anarchy MC: Alaska #1)

“Come on, Hannah, don’t be such a wuss. You can’t rely on home delivery your whole life,” I say to myself, and Grace lets out a meow.

“I don’t need you giving me grief about my hermit status!

” Twirling more spaghetti onto my fork, I mutter, “Jesus, Hannah, you really need to get out more... you’re talking to your cat.

” With that thought, I’m determined to get myself into town and show my face. I just hope no one says anything.

M ain Street is the heart of the town, a single stretch of road lined with weathered wooden storefronts.

There’s the general store, its hand-painted sign slightly crooked but charming.

Next to it is Betty’s Café, a cozy little diner with red-checkered curtains and a chalkboard out front advertising today’s special—elk stew and cornbread.

Farther down, there’s a hardware store, a small post office, and two bars that face off as rivals on opposite sides of the street.

One is The Grizzly Den, with its log-cabin exterior and an old neon bear in the window.

The other is The Rusty Nail, with its large windows, it looks slightly more inviting than the Grizzly Den.

Next to The Rusty Nail is a hairdresser who also offers beauty services, and next to that is a sporting goods store.

The grocery store, Northern Lights Pantry, has a lot of things in bulk, which I guess makes sense for life up here. The only thing I’m missing is flour and I’m standing in front of a twenty-five-pound bag, wondering if I’ll ever use all of it.

You got a problem there, young lady?” asks an older gentleman.

“I was kind of hoping for a five-pound bag.”

He chuckles. “Sold out. We can order it in for you, but it won’t be here until next week with our normal order.”

“I might chicken out if I wait that long.”

“Excuse me?”

My face goes a nice shade of red. “I’ll take the flour.”

He grins at me and shakes his head. “Okay, do you have something to store it in?”

Shaking my head, I say, “No. What would you recommend?”

He walks a little farther to the back of the store, stops, and looks at me. “I’m Staten Cole. I own this place, not that I’m here very often.” He holds out his hand.

Putting my hand in his, we shake. “I’m Hannah Greer. I just moved here.”

“Oh, I know you’re the Cheechako who got stuck in a ditch.”

With my eyebrows raised in surprise, I ask, “Did he tell everyone?”

“He?” Staten shakes his head. “Nope, but Mandy and I see each other from time to time. She’s what you’d probably call my lady. Mandy owns Betty’s Café across the way.”

“Right, and how did she know?”

Staten shrugs. “Small town. Everyone eventually finds out about everything, well, almost everything.” He moves farther into the store. “Now flour keeps best in air-tight containers. Glass is best, but we do have plastic, and if you can store it in your freezer, it’ll last forever.”

“You can say that again,” I say more to myself as I glance back at the twenty-five-pound bag. “How many glass containers am I going to need for all that flour?”

Staten taps his chin as he thinks. “Ah, I’m thinking five.”

“Five?”

“Tell you what, if that’s too many, you can bring them back. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like I’m buying five glass containers and twenty-five pounds of flour to make a batch of cookies.”

Staten laughs. “I’ll get it all rung up for you, and I’ll even get my son, Davis, to carry it to your car.”

“Appreciate that.”

Staten winks at me. “Davis!”

“Yeah, Dad?” Turning, I see a younger version of Staten poking his head out of the back room. “Can you carry out five of these and a twenty-five-pound bag of flour to Hannah’s car?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can I have your keys?” asks Staten.

This is something I’d never do in LA. There’s no way I’d hand over my keys to a complete stranger, but here in Alaska, it feels right.

“Sure.”

I place them in his hand, and he tosses them to Davis, then holds my elbow as he escorts me to the cash register.

“Are you enjoying your time in Alaska?”

“So far, it’s been great.”

“Good. If you survive your first winter, you’ll stay.”

Not really knowing how to respond to that, I pay him by tapping my card on his machine and smiling as his son carts out my flour over his shoulder.

“Thank you for your help.”

“It’s a rare thing I’m here... you got lucky.” He puts two fingers to his temple and gives me a wave. “You have a good day.”

When I get outside, Davis is staring at my car. He shakes his head and laughs.

“Is something funny?”

Davis’ eyes flick to my face, and for a split second, the easy smile he had fades. I catch him looking at my scar before he looks away, his voice dropping.

“No, ma’am. Just never seen one of these up here before.” Davis hurries back into the store, and he comes back out with three glass containers.

His father is a few steps back with the last two. They put them in my car, and I notice Davis is avoiding eye contact.

“Thanks again, and I hope I see you soon, Staten.” I open my door and look at Davis. “And you too. Have a good day.”

Davis looks away, unable to meet my gaze. I guess people in Alaska are like everywhere else. They avoid what’s different. What’s ugly. If only everyone were as kind as Staten, pretending they didn’t notice.