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It’s funny, Royal made a weird comment tonight. He said he never sees you stay longer than one drink at the Grudge, but I feel like I always see you there! What’s with that?
Hot coals lined my throat as I reread it. The text had come through right around the time I was beating the shit out of her older brother.
After Wyatt pulled onto the farm, I climbed out of the car without a word. He left in silence, and when I climbed my porch steps, I dumped my sorry ass into a chair. My phone dinged witha new message, and I closed my eyes and sighed before looking at it.
Daryl Hall
Everyone is talking about what happened in the parking lot. Are you okay?!
My fingers itched with indecision. I should ignore her—stop the ridiculous charade of pretending that a Sullivan and a King could ever be friends. Our families would always be rivals. Neither side had any desire to move past the generations of mutual hatred.
I even considered glossing over her comment with a flippant line, when I paused.Or do I tell her the truth?
Nerves rattled under my skin, and I swallowed hard.
Fuck it.
Things got heated. I’m fine. To answer your question, I only ever stay on nights you’re there.
FOUR
SYLVIE
The July heat was oppressive,and I wiped a small bead of sweat from my hairline. Beyond the quaint downtown area, a side street was alive with the pulsating rhythm of the weekly farmers’ market. It was a big moneymaker for the Sugar Bowl, as tourists and townies alike were drawn in by the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee intermingling with the intoxicating scent of warm cinnamon pastries.
I loved working at the farmers’ market, since it was an opportunity to meet and mingle with lots of new faces. To them I wasn’t a King but simply a soft smile behind their favorite bakery. It seemed coffee and carbs made everyone’s Saturday better.
It was also an opportunity to sneak glances across the market at the Sullivan Farms booth. Duke was in his stall, where he sold blueberries by the pint alongside various jams and jellies, all while looking like his typical grump-ass self and glaring at customers. I stifled a giggle as I packed up an order and handed it across the table.
Two weeks had passed since the scuffle in the parking lot of the Grudge, but tensions were still at an all-time high. After that night, Duke and I hadn’t talked about it again, and I triedto ignore the uneasy feeling I got whenever I thought about anactualfight between my brother and Duke. I was ashamed to admit that the abrasions on Duke’s knuckles were kind of hot, especially since they were the cause of my brother’s bruised ribs. Of course, no one was taking any responsibility for what happened. Depending on who you overheard, blame was laid squarely on the shoulders of the offending family. I heard Lee had tossed a martini in Royal’s face, or Whip had slapped Wyatt, or Duke had rammed his truck into Royal’s in an attempted murder.
Each story was more ridiculous than the last.
I sighed and stared into the bright midmorning sun, hoping the vitamin D would boost my mood. Today was also the sixth and final date of the Outtatowner date auction.
I had come up with a ridiculous excuse that I needed to work the booth for the Sugar Bowl while Huck and Casselyn enjoyed the market. Truth was, Rebecca could have more than handled it.
“Hey, Sylvie!” Stepping forward, Annie Crane held me with her bright smile. Her unruly red curls bounced with the lake breeze as she scanned the table. Annie was a Sullivan by association. She’d been practically adopted by the late June Sullivan as a kid and had fallen into a close friendship with Lee Sullivan—though the fact Lee was staring at her ass told me it was likely the rumors were true and they were finally an item.
Despite the King–Sullivan rivalry, Annie and I were a part of the Bluebird Book Club. The club met weekly, and despite family ties it was a place for the women of Outtatowner to come together in secret to gossip, solve problems, and maybe even just be ourselves.
No doubt, the Bluebird Book Club was my happy place.
“Good morning. What can I get you?”
Her blue eyes danced across the table of pastries. “A couple of coffees.” She leaned in to whisper. “Are there any Junkers left?”
The small scraps of homemade biscuit dough discards were rolled in cinnamon sugar, then baked. They were Annie’s favorite and a bestseller at the bakery.
From behind the table I pulled a small white bag I had stashed earlier and handed it to Annie. “If you tell Ms. Tiny I sold these to you, I’ll deny it.”
Annie grinned and moved one finger over her lips in a zipping motion. “I won’t say a word.” Annie rifled through her oversize purse to pull out cash for the coffee and pastries. Behind her, laughter blended with the hum of our community and the rustling of paper bags. The farmers’ market was a patchwork of bustling stalls and smiling faces. A happy bark echoed through the air, and I allowed the sunshine to warm my face while I waited.
After she paid, Annie paused. “No date today?”
I blinked at her, unsure of how to navigate the conversation. While I was relieved to no longer be paired with Stumpy Larson, the last few dates with Charles had been... underwhelming. Sure, he was cultured and charming and accommodating, but something was missing.
I was self-aware enough to know I came across as cold, but deep down I had been actuallyhopefulabout the date auction. Turns out it was just another pitiful check mark in the disaster that was my dating life. Plus, at one time, Annie and Charles had been on a few dates.
