3. Duke #2
It took me a minute to figure out how to respond to Sylvie. I had no claim over Sylvie King, so it shouldn’t have irritated me that she was going out on a date.
I hadn’t dated anyone in a long time. She was free to date whomever she wanted, but fuck.
I wanted to warn her about Charles—tell her that my gut told me getting attached to him was a mistake.
A mistake, but also, if she really wanted to go to the Grudge and celebrate, I’d be happy to take her.
I could push her around the dance floor to some fun country song while I held her in my arms.
I let out a dry humorless laugh at my stupidity. There wasn’t a world in which that could ever happen. I could never betray my family, and her brothers would certainly have a lot to say about it if I crossed that line.
Texting in secret would be all there could ever be between us. Hell, we had never even had a conversation in public, so I couldn’t imagine the collective gasp and jaw dropping that would happen if we ever went on an actual date.
It seemed childish yet so inevitable all at once.
Stumpy is the worst.
Daryl Hall
You couldn’t have come to the auction and made a bid? Way to leave a girl hanging.
My mouth went dry. Had Sylvie wanted me to bid on dates with her? What the fuck... in our months of texting, Sylvie tended to be playful—that was likely all it was.
The auction is more Lee’s thing.
I banged my head against the wall. It wasn’t a lie.
I was glad that I hadn’t been set up on the date auction because fuck that .
It didn’t escape my notice that the thought of being set up with Sylvie, in some alternate universe where that wouldn’t cause World War III, was the only appealing part of Outtatowner’s archaic date auction.
I hadn’t been on a date in forever. A random townie hookup held little appeal these days.
Especially when I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about a certain forbidden blonde with mysterious caramel eyes.
Sylvie and I would never be anything more than friends—that much I knew for certain.
Hell, we couldn’t really even be friends .
Tension between the Kings and Sullivans were at an all-time high.
Someone was poking around, asking questions about mineral rights and land ownership, and I had a pretty good idea of who that was.
I didn’t fucking like it.
Daryl Hall
I figured as much . . . I’m sorry. Did I make this weird?
No. You should have fun and celebrate.
The lies were stacking one on top of the other as they wedged themselves in my chest, burrowed deep, and made a home there. I prayed it was only a matter of time before Sylvie also saw Charles for the weasel I suspected him to be.
Daryl Hall
Thanks. I’ll just be glad when all of this date auction bullshit is over.
I let out a breath, but it was more like a sigh of relief. The hot ball of tension in my chest unfurled at the realization that she wasn’t all that happy about the dates she was going on either. I let myself cling to the sliver of hope she wasn’t joking about wishing we could have been set up.
Daryl Hall
I gotta run, but talk to you later?
You bet.
I scrolled back to the picture Sylvie had sent and stared at it for a few heavy moments. A part of me wished I didn’t have to hide out in my house, wary that if I went into town, I might accidentally run into her and smile before I could catch myself.
It pissed me off, but it was the way that it had to be. Like everything else in my life, what I wanted didn’t matter. I was a Sullivan, bound by duty. Dad, the farm, holding my family together, even the feud. There was no getting past it.
I hated knowing that tonight we would be breathing the same stale bar air and that I couldn’t stand close enough to see her head tip back in a laugh and finally hear what it sounded like.
Good morning texts and the occasional flirty banter were all that it would ever be.
And I fucking hated it.
Inside the Grudge Holder, an invisible divide separated the Sullivans and the Kings.
Tourists had no clue, but Kings stuck to the east end of the bar, while Sullivans took up space on the west. While the owner may have named his bar after the infamous feud, he had a zero-tolerance policy about starting shit in his bar.
It was an unspoken rule we all stood by.
Usually.
The band was already a few songs into their set, Lee was on the dance floor politely turning down a dance with some woman I didn’t recognize, and Wyatt was getting our first round.
I scanned the bar again. I hadn’t seen Sylvie, and irritation rolled across my back.
Should have just stayed home.
Daryl Hall
You know a night out is supposed to be fun, right?
My heart clunked. It was something we had never done before—an invisible line we had yet to cross. Texting in public was risky. I looked around, and for the briefest moment my eyes landed on hers.
My jaw flexed as I controlled the urge to break out into a grin.
Daryl Hall
You look like you’re about to murder someone.
What do you mean? This is my happy face.
Across the bar, I could see her look at her phone and cover her laugh with a cough. Heat radiated across my chest.
Wyatt’s shoulder bumped into me. “Dude, you are so fucked.”
My eyes flew to his as I slipped my phone back into my pocket and shot him a harsh glare.
He only smirked and nodded toward the phone secured in my pocket. “I know that look. You are so gone for that girl.”
At the high-top table, I shrugged him off and leaned on my elbows, letting my bottle rest between my hands. Fresh tension set in between my shoulder blades. Sylvie was hanging around, so my typical one-beer exit strategy evaporated, and I ordered another.
Over time I had learned that Sylvie wasn’t the kind of woman who laughed loudly or sucked up the energy in the room. Instead, she was all subtle smiles and assessing eyes. Her loud-ass brothers may have demanded attention, but somehow she had stolen mine.
Once I found her, I didn’t let my eyes stay on her longer than a fraction of a second.
Especially not after Wyatt was already suspicious of whoever I was texting.
Plus, I didn’t want to creep her out by staring at her across the bar like some lovesick puppy whose face apparently looked like a murderer’s.
From my peripheral, I watched as conversations overlapped around Sylvie. Her long fingers traced a drop of moisture down the outside of her wineglass. Leave it to a King to be the only person in a dive bar drinking white wine.
She contributed to the conversation only a time or two as voices flowed over her, crashing into her like a wave and swallowing her up. I wasn’t sure if anyone even acknowledged her comments, and that pissed me right the fuck off. It was as though she was present but not fully included.
Finally, MJ grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the dance floor. I sat back and relaxed a little in the stool. Whenever she danced, I knew I could watch her weave through the crowded dance floor without worrying about getting caught staring.
To any outside onlooker, it would appear like I was just a silent observer as my friends and neighbors enjoyed a night out on the town.
If only they knew.
By my third beer, Wyatt clamped a hand on my shoulder. “It’s about your bedtime, isn’t it, Cinderella?”
I harrumphed but drained the last of my beer and stood, dropping a nice tip on the table for our server.
The truth was, I could stay all night and watch Sylvie sway and move to the music on the dance floor. Out there she let herself go in a way I’d never seen her do anywhere else.
She was free. And fucking gorgeous. Breathtaking.
It was a sick kind of punishment to watch the one thing you could never have. Drowning in self-loathing, I agreed with Wyatt to call it a night.
Outside, the June air was thick and oppressive.
Even the breeze off the lake was stifling.
We headed out the front of the Grudge and walked through the alleyway between buildings toward the packed parking lot near the back.
Wyatt’s car came into view, and I eyed it, wondering if a King had covered the windshield with sticky notes or swapped out the washer fluid with colored liquid, or any other of the mindless pranks they managed to pull.
My boots crunched against the gravel parking lot, and the sudden hushed voices drew my attention. Leaned against his truck at the far end of the lot was Royal King and his brother Whip. When they saw Wyatt and me, Whip straightened to his full height, while Royal slowly turned to face us.
My fists clenched at my sides. I was already irritated at the way their entire group seemed to ignore Sylvie, and I hated how I could never seem to escape the ridiculous feud. I couldn’t even get a fucking beer without it being thrown in my face.
“Just keep walking.” Wyatt’s low tone let me know he saw them, too, and was well aware of the way they were tracking our movements.
My blood ran hot. In Outtatowner, loyalty was everything . My secret friendship with Sylvie would be enough to ignite the tinderbox of our small-town feud, but I couldn’t convince myself to stop—not when her messages were the only things dragging me out of bed some days.
It’s only a few text messages. No one has to know.
I grunted a response to Wyatt and kept walking.
I sure as fuck didn’t need her idiot brothers souring my already piss-poor mood.
The metal back door of the Grudge swung open, and a clang rang out as it hit the brick wall.
Lee shot both arms in the air as he sauntered out of the back exit and across the lot.
His eyes were glassy, and his smile widened when he saw Royal and Whip.
Fuck.
“Well, hey, boys! Just came to stretch my legs.” Lee shot a thumb over his shoulder and grinned. “Had to turn down your sister in there. Man, she was desperate.”
Whip took a step forward. “The fuck did you say?”