One Look: A grumpy, single dad small town romance(27)

The Grudge Holder turned out to be the local Outtatowner bar and dance hall on the far edge of the main strip of roadway. Music pumped from the speakers, and signs outside boasted Summer Specials and bands that were scheduled all summer long.

In my travels, I found that random townie bars were ripe for people watching and picking up quirky mannerisms I could use on my next gig. It also gave me something to do other than not-so-casually stalk my kitchen window to see if I could catch a glimpse of Wyatt across the driveway.

By 8:00 p.m., the band was playing, the dance floor was full, and happy cheers of encouragement filled the neon-drenched space. I sat back, enjoying the view from a stool at the main bar. The band played a mix of rock-and-roll classics along with a few country songs. I laughed aloud at a twangy version of Harry Styles, and it was good enough to almost get me to my feet.

I spotted Sylvie, and she offered a friendly wave but was deep in her conversation, so I settled on a high stool near the bar. When the bartender leaned over, I shouted above the music, “Do you have any Beer Thirty?”

The man shot me a confused look, so I just smiled and waved a hand in the air. “Whatever you have on draft is fine.”

He nodded and stepped away.

“May I have this dance?” I turned toward the deep voice to my left.

My mouth popped open to find the guy from the sidewalk, dressed in jeans and a formfitting black shirt, extending his heavily tattooed arm. He smiled, and the edges of his eyes crinkled, making him much friendlier than he appeared. “I’m Royal.”

My brain stuttered. “Royal? Royal . . . King. Your parents named you Royal King?”

He laughed and pulled his hand back, straightening to his full height.

“No, ma’am. They actually like me.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. He was charming in a direct, slightly aggressive kind of way.

“In a place like this, nicknames have a way of sticking.”

“Ah.” I smiled and took a sip of the beer that had appeared in front of me, but I didn’t make the move of stepping down from my stool. “That’s good news, then.”

“If you stick around a while, maybe I’ll let you in on my real name.” He winked and a weird sensation passed over my clammy skin. “So what do you say? One dance?”

I looked around the crowded dance floor, trying to find some excuse to politely refuse him, when from across the bar, I saw Wyatt Sullivan stomping across the beat-up hardwood with murder in his eyes.





12





WYATT





Zero. Fucking. Chance.

My pulse hammered as I stalked across the dance floor toward Lark and Royal fucking King.

From the second she walked into the Grudge, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She wore cutoff jean shorts that showed off her smooth, toned legs and casual high-top sneakers, but that wasn’t what drew me in. It was my shirt. She wore my flannel, cropped short and tied in a knot. My blood ran hot for her, and a flash of her grin as she shot me down that night on the porch ran through my mind. I’d also jerked off a shameful number of times to the image of her perfect ass as it slid in front of my face when I’d rescued her from the dune.

Lark had come to the bar alone and seemed content to be a happy observer. She probably didn’t realize it, but she’d positioned herself squarely on the east side of the bar—King territory.

I pictured her smiling down at my kid as they walked away together, and every cell in my body protested.

It wasn’t until Royal sauntered up to her with his lazy smirk that my blood began to boil. Lark was new in town. She didn’t know that by being friends with us, she’d been claimed as a Sullivan.

Being a Sullivan meant that the generations-long feud drew distinct lines in the sand. It was more than the stupid pranks. Years of backhanded deals and a muddy history meant the Kings couldn’t be trusted and Lark was ours.

I wasn’t a caveman. I didn’t intend to stomp over to them, pound my chest, and haul her over my shoulder. Though the thought of her perfect ass right next to my face again made my palm itch to smack it.

I dragged my hand down my face, and my feet started moving. Jesus. What the hell am I doing?

Before I could even come up with a plan, I’d inserted myself right in front of Royal and Lark. Lee and Duke were posted up right behind me, their arms crossed and legs planted wide. I smirked, knowing they’d have my back if this thing went south and we ended up brawling—again—in the middle of the Grudge.

“She’s not interested.”

Royal only tipped one eyebrow in my direction and dismissed me with a laugh. Lark slipped from her seat, but her small frame barely came to our shoulders. She was squarely in the middle of two grown men having a pissing contest.

“Hey, Wyatt. What’s up?”

The muscles in my jaw worked, and I flexed my fist. I lifted my chin. “Oh, he knows what’s up.”

Lark sidestepped between us, and some of the fire in my gut died down. She couldn’t be this close if things got physical. It wouldn’t be safe. The Sullivans and the Kings had had hundreds of scuffles in the past, most ending with black eyes and sometimes a broken bone or two. I flexed my fist.

“Yeah, GB. What’s up?” Royal tossed around my high school nickname like I gave a shit the town wasn’t creative enough to come up with something other than Golden Boy after my football career took off.