Chapter 3
3
[Cort]
F uck .
Why does Vale Sylver have to be so beautiful?
Women have this fear that growing older ages them in ways men might find unattractive, but there is something about Vale that just makes her more stunning with each passing decade of her life.
I don’t know if it’s the two-tone shades of blond in her hair, glistening in the sunlight, or the soft lines around her mouth as she smiles at her boy, but Vale just takes my fucking breath away.
“That was fun.” A slap on my shoulder and Clint’s low voice in my ear does nothing to distract me from watching Vale walk away.
Her body is the perfect shape of infinity.
Her legs look toned beneath her leggings.
Her arm is around her son as she leans into him and says something I wish I could hear.
Scrubbing my thick paw down my face, I drag my thoughts away from Vale .
“Yeah. We have a good crop of kids this year.” The tryouts are over.
Clint smiles while Tate adds, “And some hot moms as well.”
Clint’s head pops upright, jerking his gaze from the tablet in his hand to glare at our middle brother.
Even in his forties, Tate can be a real punk, which might explain why he’s single.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap, turning on him.
He’s my height but I’m broader than him.
He’s all lean muscle while I’m bulk, and his hair has a hint of gray in the sandy locks which I love to razz him about.
“What? I’m just saying that Ronnie Archer is fine.”
Clint snorts.
“And from what I’ve heard, she isn’t too discerning about her partners.”
Far be it for any of us to judge her choices, though.
Tate grins. “Good news for me then, huh?”
Clint scrunches up his nose in disgust at the manwhore ways of our middle brother.
“Parents are off limits,” I remind Tate.
He pouts like I’ve told him he can’t have dessert before dinner.
I don’t care what order he eats his meals as long as he doesn’t hunger for any of our parents.
Especially one particular single mom.
“Vale’s looking good,” Tate adds, driving in the steak knife, and my entire body shifts to face him, realizing too late he’s addressing Clint.
Clint lowers his head, staring down at the tablet in his hand like it holds all the secrets on how to win a baseball game, or a woman.
His cheeks flush. As a single father of a precious five-year-old, I suspect it’s been a while since our brother has hooked up with anyone.
He’s closer in age to Vale, being only three years older than her, and once a playmate of hers as he hung out with Sebastian Sylver before everything fell to shit between our families.
And the last thing I want is Clint lusting after Vale .
Despite the separation of families almost twenty years ago—twenty-three to be exact—we never reconciled.
I’ve seen Vale be cordial to my brothers and even develop a friendship with our only sister, Trinity, through their ladies-only book club.
Stone has always been fair, as a sheriff should be, not that we Havens have caused any unlawful disturbances or trouble.
Still, an invisible wall exists between the men in our two families.
Sadly, I’m the one who built it, and I’ve never forgiven myself.
“Beer?” Tate asks, which is the first smart thing he’s said in the last five minutes.
“Milton Roadhouse,” he adds, confirming the location of the main drinking establishment in Sterling Falls.
The former hotel and bar on the intersection of Main and Corner in the downtown area looks like a Western saloon inside.
I cringe a little at the suggestion, preferring the privacy of Randy’s which is just outside town, wedged between Rogue River and Sterling Falls.
It’s more of a locals-only, get-lost-in-your-head kind of place, and less crowded than the Roadhouse.
Not to mention, I’d be less likely to run into one unavailable-to-me single mom.
I’ve done my best over the years to avoid the place that got me into trouble with Vale.
Then again, the spot that pushed me over the edge was next to the famous falls themselves, and a location I avoid as well.
“Those Sylvers are lucky bastards,” Tate mutters as I’m taking a seat on a bar stool inside Milton Roadhouse.
I almost topple off the tall, wooden seat, while craning my neck to scan the bar for what Tate is talking about.
Or rather, whom, as four women sit at a table on the opposite side of the place .
Milton Roadhouse is rather dark, with wood-paneled walls and hard wood floors.
A three-sided bar takes up a portion of the space with several high-top tables scattered here and there, and regular tables made from whiskey barrels located closer to the slim stage.
The Western décor is complete with giant wagon wheel chandeliers and country music piped through overhead speakers despite baseball games on the large screen televisions behind the bar.
Adjusting my ass on the stool between my brothers, I stare across the space at the table where Vale sits, along with Halle Reynolds, a slim redhead who is Knox Sylver’s girlfriend.
Also at the table is Mavis Grant, a Native American woman with sleek black hair with thin strips of gray in it, who is engaged to Clay Sylver.
“Heard Knox finally married his girl,” Tate states, sliding onto the seat beside me, while clarifying the relationship status of the former high school sweethearts.
“It was a family-only affair,” Clint adds.
Roughly two years ago, when Halle inherited her grandmother’s house, Clint took on the job of painting the exterior of the historic home located on the boulevard outside the Sterling Falls’ downtown business district.
Clint is the painting side of our business; I’m the roofing.
On that thought, my back pinches a little, and I sit up a bit straighter on the hard wooden seat attempting to stretch out my spine.
“That so?” I mutter, responding to Clint’s expanded information about the Sylvers and their love lives.
Continuing to stare at the table, I notice our sister, Trinity, a blonde-headed spitfire of a woman who can scare the crap out of me sometimes, among the ladies.
“Must be Thursday.” Tate wiggles his brows.
“What’s special about Thursday?” I ask.
“Every Thursday, Trinity has book club .” Clint air-quotes the final words, and I turn my head wondering just what the fuck these two are talking about.
“Book club?” I mock back at him like I’m missing the obvious.
“You know, the code word for what Meredith Mulligan is doing above her store,” Clint explains.
Now I’m really lost and not certain I want to know, but laughter from the other side of the bar draws my attention and I glance across the space to find Vale’s head tipped back.
Her throat exposed. Her hair dangling down her back.
The rich timbre of her laugh shooting up into the air like a volcanic eruption.
I want to feel the heat of that sound on my skin.
Instead, I shift my gaze to the television above the bar, fighting the unwanted sensation in my chest, and the urge to ask my brothers for clarification.
Fuck it . “What’s Meredith Mulligan doing above her store?”
Meredith is the owner of The She Shed, a knitting supply store across the street from the Roadhouse.
As a widow in her early seventies, she’s a good friend to our widowed mother, and the two of them get up to all kinds of trouble.
“Selling sex toys,” Tate blurts.
“What?” My head turns so sharply, my neck cracks and I cup the back of it.
Clint chokes on a sip of beer that mysteriously appeared before us.
“Would you keep your voice down?” he chides.
I continue staring at Tate, blinking like it will help me clarify what I’ve just learned.
“Everyone knows that book club is not just about books, if it’s even about books at all. It’s a way for Meredith to hustle her side gig.” Tate rubs his hands together like he’s in on the business.
“And I am not complaining. Her profit is my gain.”
“Isn’t the saying ‘her profit is your loss’?” Clint asks.
I’ve never heard such a statement and I’m not certain I want to have this conversation.
Where have I been that I don’t know anything about this so-called secret side to the local book club?
“Nope,” Tate corrects.
“The more she sells, the more invested I become.” He wiggles his brows, insinuating the sexual benefit he receives from Meredith’s sales.
A thought hits me hard.
“Ew. You’re talking about our mother’s friend .” And I do not want the image of Meredith Mulligan pleasuring herself with a dildo in my head, let alone our brother assisting her.
“Not Meredith,” Tate clarifies, scrunching up his face as well.
I glance at Clint like he can help me, but his elbow is on the bar, his forehead in his hand, shielding his eyes like he can hide himself from this discussion.
“What am I missing?” I finally admit, sounding like a dumb ass.
Tate responds. “It means, the ladies of this town seek gratification by having sex toys.” He chuckles at his own pun.
“And Momma taught me to share my toys.” Tate double taps his hands on the wooden bar.
“You mean they share their toys with you,” Clint clarifies.
Tate only smiles wider, exposing his perfectly white teeth.
“Exactly.”
My head swivels again toward the table of women, and I’m grossed out for half a second considering our sister fits the bill of ladies in this county that partake in this book club slash sex toy store.
But then another thought strikes, nearly knocking me back off the stool again.
If Vale is a member of the book club .
. .
And Vale attends the meetings which include the sale of sex toys .
. .
Then Vale must own?—
Aw, fuck .
I scratch underneath my chin with my knuckles like I can erase an image, because the very last thing I need in my head is the vision of Vale Sylver pleasuring herself with a little assistance. Or a big one.