
Feuding with My Rival: An African American Romance
Chapter 1
”Paris Girl, I need you to wake up, baby. Mamma got some people to see.” I wrap my hand around the key and close my eyes.
I want to remind Paris Girl that we”re running late. So, instead of hurting her feelings, I”m going to submit a word to the Man upstairs. Because she”s tripping and I got things to do.
”Lord…”
”Oh hell no,” Mia hollers, her eyes bugging out of her head.
I look over at her, lips pressed into a thin line. ”Don”t even start.”
”Girl, you need a new truck! Paris Girl is on her last legs.”
I cover the dashboard with my hands, shielding Paris Girl”s ears. ”Shhh! Don”t let her hear you talking crazy.” My girl may be a little worse for wear, but she”s got spirit.
Mia rolls her eyes so hard I”m surprised they don”t get stuck. ”I”m just saying?—”
”Well don”t,” I cut her off. ”I can”t afford a new truck right now.” Hell, I can barely afford to pay you as my marketing director.
She waves a ringed hand, bracelets jangling. ”You know I”m not sweating that. I believe in you and Crown Jewel. We”ll get there.”
I exhale, long and slow. ”One day at a time. For now, we gotta hustle at the farmer”s market.” I turn the key again and Paris Girl sputters, that poor engine wheezing like she just ran a marathon.
Closing my eyes, I murmur, ”Lord, you know I need this sweet lady running today. Just this once, let her turn over.”
Mia snorts but follows my lead, bowing her head as I start to pray out loud. When I”m done, she peeks one eye open. ”You really think He listens to vintage truck prayers?”
”Don”t question my methods, girl.” I turn the key again, and this time, Paris Girl roars to life. Rubbing the dash, I grin at her. ”That”s my girl!”
Mia shakes her head as I put the truck in gear. We roll down the road, Paris Girl”s engine rumbling loud and proud beneath us. The late morning sun beams down, chasing away the morning chill as we make our way to Lone Star Park.
”So, what brews are you showcasing today?” Mia asks.
”The Passion Fruit Ale for sure,” I say. That”s been my top seller lately, the light fruity flavor just perfect for spring. ”Maybe the Peanut Butter Porter too.”
Mia wrinkles her nose. ”I still can”t get over that one. Peanut butter? In beer?”
”Trust me, it works! The flavors meld together perfectly, all rich and creamy.” My mouth waters just thinking about it.
She shakes her head again, curls bouncing. ”If you say so, brewmaster.”
We lapse into silence as I navigate the familiar streets of Madison Grove.
This town, my hometown, with its country roads and quaint storefronts. I ache to devote myself fully to Crown Jewel and turn my passion project into a full-fledged career.
Crown Jewel Brew is my little brewery in a refurbished historic building downtown right on Main Street. With its exposed brick walls, warm wood tones, and the ever-present aroma of hops and malts, it”s a true labor of love.
But bills gotta get paid, which is why I still work part-time at Westbrook Distributing—the corporate gig I”ve been trying to break free from for years.
Madison Grove, Texas is north of Houston and south of Dallas. I could find a better-paying job in the city, but it would put me too far from my Crown Jewel, so I work as an executive assistant to pay the bills.
But one day, though, I vow, gripping the steering wheel tighter. One day I”ll be brewing full-time and taking my business to new heights.
Pushing those heavy thoughts aside, I pull into the parking lot at Lone Star Park. It”s already buzzing with activity, the green lawn dotted with vendor tents and little kids chasing each other around. The scent of roasted corn and smoked turkey legs fills the air.
”You ready for this?” I ask Mia as I throw the truck into park.
She grins, eyes sparkling. ”Always! Let”s go show this town what real craft beer tastes like.”
We hop out, and I lead the way to our designated spot. There are a couple of folding tables waiting for us, and I take a minute to set up the jockey boxes that”ll keep the kegs chilled. While I”m working, Mia ducks inside Paris Girl to grab the merch we brought—t-shirts, bottle openers, mason jar cups emblazoned with the Crown Jewel logo.
Once everything”s prepped, I tie on my apron—denim with a large kente cloth pocket in the front. I fuss with my topknot of locs. Taking a deep breath, I plaster a bright smile on my face and wave over the first few folks wandering our way.
”Afternoon, y”all! Who”s thirsty?”
Mia winks at me as she takes her spot behind the table, neatly arranging the merch. I grab a tray loaded with tasting cups and get to pouring the Passion Fruit Ale, its vibrant pink hue glistening in the sunshine.
My favorite part of any event is watching people take that first curious sip and seeing their eyes light up as the bright, refreshing flavors burst over their tongues. Some even go so far as to close their eyes and groan in appreciation.
”That”s real beer right there, no messing around,” I declare proudly. ”Crown Jewel don”t play when it comes to great flavor. You want to taste what else we”ve got?”
I grin as more people cluster around, and I settle in for a long day of hustlin”.
”Here comes another group,” Mia calls from the lawn chair beside me.
”I got it.” I smile, pretending feet don”t ache from standing all day.
The buzz of chatter fills the air as I work the crowd, pouring samples. The Passion Fruit Ale has been the star of the show, drawing folks in.
I launch into my usual spiel about the beer”s flavor profile, but the words catch in my throat.
There, across the grassy lawn, is Jermaine Knights.
My gaze snags on the man himself, all lean muscle in that crisp, charcoal suit. Even from here, I can see how the material strains against his broad shoulders.
My mouth goes dry as my eyes trail over every delicious inch of him—from the precise waves in his closely cropped hair down to those polished oxfords.
He looks good. Too good. And utterly out of place here amidst the laidback farmer”s market vibe.
My heart does a weird little flip in my chest.
What the hell…
But then Jermaine”s dark eyes meet mine, and the world around us blurs.
This is the man that I thought I”d spend the rest of my life. The man that I would have given anything to and for. But I was wrong.
Yet, at this moment, it”s like the last decade has never happened. Like we”re still those two love-struck college kids who couldn”t get enough of each other. The heat between us weaves through the crowd and grips me like a physical force.
My hand drifts down to rest on the swell of my hips. My once flat stomach is soft, and it”s too hot to hold it in. I”m curvier than I was back then, with more to grab onto. I wonder if he”d like that? The thought has me squirming, flushed and fidgety.
Mia leans in, lips brushing my ear. ”Is that...Jermaine?”
I give the tiniest of nods, not trusting my voice.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as Jermaine approaches with that easy, confident stride of his.
My pulse kicks up, thundering in my ears. I swear, when God made that man, He was showing out.
I force myself to turn away, focusing on the curious customer in front of me. ”So, uh...where was I?”
Too late. Jermaine stops directly behind me, his presence a physical weight against my back. I stiffen as his rich, spicy cologne washes over me.
”Well, well. If it isn”t Madison Grove”s finest brewmaster.” That deep, rumbly voice lights a match in the basement, and for a brief moment, I need an aside with womanly parts.
No. No. And hell no.
Jermaine Knights is off-limits, and for good reason.
First, he broke my heart, and second, he lied and said I stole his beer recipe. So, any thoughts of entertaining his advances disappear.
Because fool me once, and it”s on me. But fool me twice, and that”s your ass.
I can practically feel the smirk curling those full lips of his.
Squaring my shoulders, I pivot to face him. Up close, he”s even more handsome—those dark, fathomless eyes studying me with unmistakable heat. For a beat, I”m rendered utterly speechless, just drinking in the sight of him.
Damn…I”m all talk. But there”s nothing wrong with looking.
Jermaine quirks one brow. ”Cat got your tongue, Londyn?”
There”s that sly, teasing lilt I remember so well. The one that used to make me melt into a giggling puddle at his feet.
Well, not anymore.
”Hardly,” I say, flashing my most dazzling smile. ”Just savoring the view before your giant head blocks out the sun.”
His grin widens, all straight white teeth and boyish charm. ”There she is. The slickest tongue in Texas.”
We share a heated look, the chemistry crackling between us like a live wire.
The way he says tongue conjures naughty thoughts in my head. And I want to ask the Man why. But after using my prayers to get Paris Girl here I”m not about to waste a prayer on these lustful thoughts.
It”s all I can do not to squirm beneath the weight of that heated gaze. Part of me wants to launch myself right into his arms. But the smarter part knows that”s a straight path back to getting my heart shattered into a million pieces.
So I settle for channeling nonchalance. ”To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Mr. Knights?”
The endearment rolls off my tongue before I can stop it. His eyes flash at the sound, pupils dilating. For a heartbeat, I swear I see naked want simmering in those whiskey-brown depths.
But the moment passes in a blink. Jermaine straightens, all business once more as he smooths a hand down his lapel.
”Actually, I”m here to meet with Sterling Westbrook. We”re in talks about a potential partnership between our breweries.”
I blink, momentarily stunned. ”Sterling? Does Mr. Westbrook know?”
The words escape before I can temper them. Because, of course, Jermaine would be here making power moves, always ten steps ahead of everyone else. The guy was born with the business instinct of a freakin” shark.
That arrogant smirk is back as he studies me through hooded lids. ”It”s just a conversation between old friends.”
My heart sinks at the implication. Westbrook Distributing has been my biggest client for years, the main thing keeping Crown Jewel afloat between all the farmer”s markets and pop-up events.
If Jermaine snaps them up, my already precarious setup could crumble completely. But I dismiss that thought because Jermaine wants nothing to do with the likes of Madison Grove.
I swallow hard, squaring my shoulders. ”I see. Well, I wish you the best of luck with that, Mr. Knights.”
His eyes glitter with silent challenge. ”I don”t need luck, Londyn. You know that better than anyone.”
The words hang there, ripe with unspoken meaning. My cheeks grow hot beneath the smoldering weight of his stare. This man has a way of stripping me bare with just a look, peeling away all my defenses until I”m left painfully exposed.
Crossing my arms under my chest, I force a casual shrug. ”I”m sure Sterling has his reasons for considering your offer. As for me, I”m just focused on my brews.”
”Is that so?” Jermaine takes a deliberate step closer, invading my space. His broad chest is a mere breath away, and the top buttons on his crisp shirt are open, giving him a casual, sophisticated look until I spot a tattoo.
My gaze snags there, taking in the ink disappearing into the collar.
Heat licks through my veins like a living thing, catalyzing all sorts of wicked memories.
Nights tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, skin on skin, Jermaine”s mouth blazing a path of sin across every inch of me as I came apart in his arms over and over?—
”Londyn?”
I blink, snapping out of the vivid fantasy. Jermaine watches me through knowing eyes, one corner of his mouth quirked in a decidedly masculine smile.
Bastard knows exactly what he”s doing to me.
Flustered, I run my sweaty palms over my apron and force an airy laugh. ”Sorry, got a little lost in thought there. What were you saying?”
Those dark eyes glitter with promise. ”Just wondering if you”d given any more thought to my offer. To work together again, that is.”
My breath hitches at the unspoken invitation, the simmering promise woven between every syllable.
The truth is, I”ve thought about it every damn day for the past ten years. Wondered what could”ve been if I”d only been brave enough to take that leap.
Jermaine must read the hesitation on my face because he shifts even closer, the lapels of his jacket brushing my hand.
”We made one hell of a team back then, Londyn.”
His words are a visceral caress, awakening every nerve ending until I”m practically vibrating out of my skin.
The memories hit me in a blinding rush—Jermaine”s hands on me, his lips, the scorching heat of him buried to the hilt as he drank down every whimper and moan.
My throat works as I meet his molten stare. ”Until you outgrew Texas and me.”
”But I always said I”d come back for you…”