One Night (The Sullivan Family #4)

1. Sylvie

ONE

SYLVIE

“Just don’t spit in my coffee, okay?”

I blinked, letting the customer’s words settle over me before realizing he did, in fact, ask that I don’t spit 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 I should spit 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’d been 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 rumors are true. “Katie likes the cheese danish but usually only lets herself get it once a week.”

Beckett grinned. “Perfect. Two cheese danishes for her, whatever her coffee order is, and the blueberry crumb muffin with a black coffee for me, please.”

Mentally replaying his order, I nodded and rang him up.

Then I turned to Skinny Kenny, who was working the espresso machine, to relay the order.

Poor kid was still living up to his nickname—another strange occurrence in this town.

He could gain twenty pounds of muscle or fifty pounds of flub and he’d still always be Skinny Kenny.

That was just how things worked here. If you were lucky, or invisible like me, you could skate by without a nickname.

Moving to the display case, I loaded up the pastries into a small white bag, quietly adding in an extra petite lemon scone just because, and handed the bag across the counter to Beckett.

Behind me Rebecca, our longest-employed server, came through the swinging double doors from the back with a worried expression painted across her face.

“Sylvie... there’s an issue with this week’s produce order. Huck isn’t here, so someone needs to talk with Duke Sullivan. Can you do it?”

Heat flooded my cheeks as I ground my teeth.

It was always something. I looked around at the bustling bakery and mentally calculated how bogged down we would get if I wasn’t up front helping to get customers through the line.

I cast a wary glance behind Beckett at the growing line of customers. “Right now?”

Rebecca grimaced. “He’s waiting in the back.”

Of course he is.

Resigned, I sighed and wiped my hands on the front of my apron. “I’ll be right there.” I turned to Beckett to find a strange grin spreading across his face.

I forced a smile and ignored the wobble in my stomach. “Have a good day.”

I turned, steeling my back and gathering my breath before pushing my way through the saloon-style doors to the kitchen.

There was one thing guaranteed to ruin my mood, and he was standing in the kitchen with his hip cocked against the steel counter and his signature scowl furrowing his brows, arms crossed over his huge chest like he owned the place.

Duke freaking Sullivan.

With skin kissed by long hours in the blueberry field and muscles that showed off his life of hard work, he was all man .

Dark hair that bordered on too long threatened to cover his deep, moody eyes.

They were the kind of intense brown that held whispers of secrets—secrets a man like him let few people privy to.

The dark irises faded into black pupils and added an edge of mysterious danger to the oldest of Red Sullivan’s children.

It didn’t matter that he was the kind of hot that made women all over town stupid. He was a Sullivan, and I was a King. Decades ago our families decided they hated each other, and ever since then, we’ve been taking turns making each other’s lives miserable, usually in the form of ridiculous pranks.

Instead of growing up and letting the past die with the ancestors who created it, our families doubled down on the feud. Though it was a nuisance, it did keep life in our small town interesting.

Irritation rolled off Duke’s broad shoulders.

But that was the thing about Duke, he always looked irritated. It was probably because the Wranglers he wore were too damn tight—not that I’d ever noticed how they molded to his perfectly muscular ass.

Standing in front of him, I planted my hands on my hips. “You need something?”

He scoffed and kicked off the steel counter to face me. “I need you to not mess up my delivery schedule.”

My face scrunched. “Me? What did I do?”

Duke released a breath, which spoke volumes to how my mere presence was an annoyance. “Huck’s out of town, so I’m assuming it’s you who forgot to put his order for the week in?”

My eyes started to widen before I stopped myself and leveled him with a cool stare. Per Huck’s request, I had placed the bakery’s usual weekly order of blueberries with Sullivan Farms.

Right?

My mind raced back to the past few days, but it was blank.

Shit.

Between staffing issues, a temperamental oven that didn’t want to work unless you kicked it twice on the right side, and the early mornings prepping while Huck was gone, I must have totally forgotten to place the order.

Double shit.

My mouth popped open and snapped closed again when Duke raised his hand. “The usual?”

“Um... “ My mouth went dry with panic.

“Do you want the usual?” He spoke slowly in a way that made me feel even more dense than I must have looked. Jerk.

When I continued to stare, he sighed. “Huck does sixteen pounds, unless he’s got something special on the menu. Do you need it or not?”

Heat flooded my cheeks. Flustered, I moved past him, completely ignoring the warm, masculine scent that clung to his suntanned skin.

In the adjacent office, I flipped through a few pieces of paper until I came to the notes Huck had left me.

One finger scanned down the sheet as I felt Duke’s hot glare at my back.

“Yes.” I turned to find him staring. His eyes flicked up to mine. “The usual. Please.” I added a please to the end only because I’d be royally fucked this week without those berries.

Duke’s lips were pressed together in a firm line. “Fine.”

He turned to leave, and a sound caught in my throat. “Did you—are you leaving the berries right now?”

“No. Deliveries were done for the day, and for some reason it dawned on me that we didn’t make a stop here. I came to check up on it. I’ll have to pack and deliver a few boxes this afternoon.”

“Oh...” I started to chew the inside of my lip before I could stop myself. Duke rearranging his day to help correct my mistake caused a strange and uncomfortable feeling in my chest.

Duke was an asshole.

Cold and grumpy and moody.

A Sullivan.

He wasn’t supposed to act all neighborly and go out of his way to help us out.

“Thanks, I . . . I really appreciate it.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw, and I tamped down the low flutter in my belly.

“Yep.” Duke turned toward the back exit of the kitchen, then stopped.

I stared at the expanse of his muscular back, wondering what had stopped him from leaving.

Filling the uncomfortable silence, I gently cleared my throat. “We close at two. If you can’t make it by then, I completely understand. Maybe you could call, and I will be sure to be here so I can prep them and get everything moved to the walk-in?”

He turned, his dark eyes meeting mine and rooting me to the spot. “Call you?”

My throat was hot and tight. There was no reason for my physical reaction to Duke, but it was there all the same. His masculine energy filled the kitchen until the air was thick with it.

“Last time a King got my phone number, I got nothing but crank calls for months,” he said.

I stared, stunned. That was definitely my brother, Royal.

“Cat facts,” he continued, not at all seeing the humor in the ridiculous prank. “I was texted cat facts— fifteen times a day. I had to get a new phone number.”

I put my hands in the air, stifling the laugh that threatened to escape. “It wasn’t me, and I wouldn’t do that. I swear. I just want to be sure the kitchen is open when you get here.”

A low grunt rumbled in his throat as he looked me over.

When he reached his hand into the pocket of his jeans, I couldn’t help but notice how thick and veined his forearms were. Slipping the phone from his pocket, he hesitated before finally unlocking it and handing it to me.

I rolled my eyes and quickly typed my phone number into his phone, texting my own so I would also have his number. When the text alert came through, I slid my phone from my back pocket and saved his number.

I held his phone toward him. Reaching out, his rough fingertips dragged against my palm as he retrieved his phone. Heat spread up my arm and danced across my chest. I snatched my hand back before he could notice.

He looked at the phone, and his frown deepened. “Daryl Hall?”

I held up my phone. “Yep. And you’re John Oates.”

He eyed me, and tiny prickles danced on the back of my neck. I swallowed. “Well, I can’t have Duke Sullivan flash across the screen and give my brothers a collective coronary.”

Realization dawned over his dark features. “Hall and Oates. Like the eighties pop duo?”

I swirled a finger in the air as a classic, upbeat Hall and Oates song flowed softly from the kitchen speaker. “Thinkin’ on my feet here.”

With a nod and not another word, Duke sailed out the back exit. The door slammed and I stared after it.

What the hell was that?

A crash at the front of the bakery shook me out of my stupor. “Sylvie! We need some help up here!” Rebecca called.

“Coming!” I lifted my shirt at the collar to drag in some air, wondering why it was suddenly so freaking hot back there.