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ONE
SYLVIE
“Just don’t spitin my coffee, okay?”
I blinked, letting the customer’s words settle over me before realizing he did, in fact, ask that I don’tspit in his coffee. Standing across the counter was Matty, a cousin of the Sullivans and a guy I’d known since I was in kindergarten.
Stunned, I nodded and kept my expression calm before moving to fill his order. The sounds of the bustling bakery flowed over me, and the aroma of hot espresso clung to the air and mixed with the sweet cinnamon-sugar smells coming from the kitchen. Clinking forks and mindless chatter continued around me, and I could feel the tension form a tight ball between my shoulder blades.
It was a Saturday morning, and the Sugar Bowl was known to have the best pastries in town so, of course, we were swamped. It didn’t matter that early-October temperatures meant the tourist season was officially over—it was known Outtatowner, Michigan, drew people in year-round.
Just don’t spit in my coffee.
My eyes narrowed at his coffee as I shoved down my irritation at his comment. A small, petty part of me thought Ishouldspit in it, just to spite him and the idiotic rivalry.The long-standing feud between the Sullivan family and the Kings was a thing of legends, going back longer than I could remember. Both sides trying to one-up each other with ridiculous pranks. Though Outtatowner was a coastal tourist town, those who were from here, us townies, knew the line was drawn. You were either with us, or with them. No two ways about it.
For years I watched my brothers try to pull one over on the Sullivans, just to have them return it, jab for jab. Until recently it had remained innocuous, though I had noticed my brothers were edgier than ever, and the Sullivan name coming up more and more.
The only two who’d managed to find some peace were Aunt Bug and the Sullivans’ aunt Tootie. Even though they didn’t like each other, they took it upon themselves to make sure we didn’t tear down the town around them when things got heated. For the tourists’ sake, we kept outward appearances, but it wasn’t unheard of for my brothers to have a throwdown outside the pub on a Saturday night. Hell even the bar’s name, the Grudge Holder, was an homage to the tension between our families.
I couldn’t care less about the feud. For most of my life, I’d hidden in the background, watching my brothers trip over themselves trying to get back at a Sullivan for one thing or another. But not me.
I am Switzerland.
Switzerland probably wouldn’t spit in Matty’s coffee, so I pressed the lid on and handed it to him with a tight smile. I had become a pro at sucking air in through my nose and delivering a cool, judgment-free dismissal.
“Spit free.” My joke didn’t land, and his eyes flicked down to the cup, more wary than ever.
“Great.” Matty left, and I didn’t miss the slight roll of his eyes. Like everyone else in this town, he didn’t bother to see me as anything more than a King.
Behind him the line was stacked up six customers deep, and my eyes scanned to note that our busser wasn’t keeping up with clearing tables. Three high-tops had cups and plates stacked on them, with customers weaving around tables to find a clean place to sit.
Hurrying through the next several customers, I dropped any attempt at being friendly. Being perky wasn’t worth it when no matter what I did, we’d still be behind, and I would continue to receive narrowed glances just for being a King at the town’s most popular breakfast stop.
With a deep breath, I powered through, like I always did.
I can do this.
Huck, the owner of the bakery, had taken his fiancée on a surprise two-week trip, so it was up to me to hold down the fort. I’d worked at the Sugar Bowl for years now—starting as a server and eventually taking on more and more responsibilities until I became an unofficial manager of sorts. He was counting on me. Huck was a great boss, and given the fact he didn’t put much weight into the King–Sullivan feud, it meant a decent place to work, away from my father.
“Can you get someone to clear this table?” a customer I didn’t recognize called from the back, and my eyes sliced to the busser, who was balancing the already-full tub on his hip. “Yep! One second please.”
I ignored the additional grumblings and, with a gentle huff, flicked a strand of hair that had come loose from my ponytail. Trying to keep my cool, I steadied my breathing as the next customer stepped up to the counter.
My eyes tracked upward as I took in the tall man in front of me. Beckett Miller wasn’t a townie, but he was damn close. He’dbeen vacationing in Outtatowner for years and had been best friends with Duke Sullivan since they were teens.
In our small town, the divide between Kings and Sullivans was clear, and Beckett had planted himself squarely in Sullivan territory. More so after agreeing to help renovate Ms. Tootie’s farmhouse, and if the rumors were true, he and Kate Sullivan had gone from tearing at each other’s throats to tearing at their clothes.
That particular piece of hot gossip had made the rounds at the Bluebird Book Club, since Beckett was actually the moody older brother of Kate’s weaselly ex-boyfriend.
Beckett stepped up to the register and I suppressed a small smile. Up close he was handsome, and I was happy for Kate, even though our long-standing family rivalry told me I shouldn’t dare be happy for a Sullivan. “Welcome to the Sugar Bowl. What can I get started for you?”
“Do you know Kate Sullivan?”
My eyebrows lifted. “Of course I do.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded. “Great. Do you happen to know what her favorite is?” He wagged a finger toward the glass display case overflowing with scones, muffins, and danishes.
A small smile twitched at the corner of my mouth.Guess the rumorsaretrue.“Katie likes the cheese danish but usually only lets herself get it once a week.”
