Ace (Dirty Sinners #0) Read Online Cameron Hart

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Dirty Sinners Series by Cameron Hart

Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)

She’s too sweet. Too pure. Too innocent for a man like Ace. A man riddled with darkness. A man who can barely keep his demons in check. A man who only knows how to hold his cards close to his chest.
Ace joined the Dirty Sinners MC straight out of juvie, and has settled into his life as their enforcer. He has no room for the bright, bubbly woman doing random acts of kindness around town, no matter how her smile makes him feel.
When someone tries taking advantage of the sweet red-head who has captured his interest, Ace jumps into action. His protective instinct turns possessive, and soon, he can’t keep his hands off Lennox. Will she be the one to get this Dirty Sinner to lay down his cards?




“Twenty-ounce half-caf latte with light foam and sugar-free vanilla coming right up, Stella!” I smile at one of my favorite customers as I load up the espresso hopper and start assembling her drink.

“Bless you, child,” the older woman says dramatically while stuffing a five-dollar bill in the tip jar. “I don’t know how you manage to memorize everyone’s order. I can barely remember to put my wig on most days.”

I giggle at Stella as I steam the milk for her beverage. “I would never have guessed it wasn’t natural.”

Her boisterous laughter bounces off the walls of the coffee shop, causing a few of the other patrons to look up. Stella has bright purple hair today, the curls pinned in an elaborate updo with a pink bow on top, resting slightly off-center. Yesterday, her hair was teal. Last week, it was fire engine red.

“Don’t you go telling anyone my secret,” she says, tapping her nose.

I make the universal signal for zipping my lips shut, which only makes her laugh harder. It’s no secret that Stella Arnold keeps the boutique wig shop down the street in business.

I pull two perfect espresso shots into the waiting cup, then pour the hot milk over the top, holding back most of the foam and watching the white and caramel brown colors mix together. Using a spoon, I scoop out a marshmallowy dollop of foam and place it right on top, completing Stella’s order.

Her metal and beaded bracelets jingle as she reaches for the coffee, and she sighs in appreciation as she takes her first sip. “That’s the good stuff right there,” Stella says to no one in particular.

“We do our best here at The Grind.”

“Thank dear sweet baby Jesus for that,” she says, her words dripping with the southern drawl we’re known for here in Tennessee. Stella takes another sip of her drink, then heads out the door, bracelets clanging and heels clicking as she goes.

She’s always been a regular customer at the coffee shop, but she started her daily visits last year in a thinly veiled attempt to keep tabs on me after my aunt passed away. That’s also when her five-dollar tips started. Stella’s generosity has kept the lights on in my little studio apartment on more than one occasion, but she won’t acknowledge that she’s helping me out at all. Stubborn old woman.

I wipe down the counter and clean off the steam wand, prepping the espresso machine for the next order.

“Did I miss Stella?” my co-worker, Maribel, asks as she steps out of the back room with a stack of cups.

“She just left.”

“What color was her hair today?”

“Purple with a pink bow.”

“Classic,” Maribel says with a smile as she restocks the to-go cups and lids. “I want to be like her when I grow up,” she says wistfully.

“And when will that be?” I tease, tossing an espresso bean at her. It bounces off her forehead, making us laugh.

“Never, according to Racheal,” she sighs. The mention of her boss at the newspaper causes her to deflate.

“Still no real assignments?” I ask, resting my hand on my friend’s shoulder.

Maribel shakes her head. “I know I’m an intern fresh out of college, but how am I expected to learn anything or grow as a journalist if all I do is get coffee for people? That’s what I do here!” She throws her hands up in frustration.

I lean against the counter, listening to my friend’s struggle. “Maybe you could find your own story and cover it instead of waiting for Racheal’s approval?”

“My own story,” she repeats, tapping her pointer finger against her lips. It’s one of Maribel’s habits when she’s thinking. She also likes to braid and unbraid her hair, but the long black locks are tied up in a messy bun today, thus limiting her options.

“Yeah, I’m sure this town is crawling with stories for you to report on,” I continue as I refill the espresso hopper. “Like… coffee. Where do we get it? Is there an underground coffee crime syndicate? Is it like olive oil? Did you know the Italian mafia controls a huge portion of the olive oil industry worldwide? How crazy is that?”