“Not a break. Rumspringa.”
I blow out a frustrated breath and turn toward the Holloways’ table—right next to Keith and Dave, who are now giving them matching death stares.
Families are so ridiculous. Like Montagues and Capulets, no one remembers the original insult—just the rage.
The Holloways grew up in the trailer park.
The Stinsons? Country-club rich.
My family, the Eastons? Somewhere in between—just respectable enough to get invited to the parties, never rich enough to host them.
And now that the Holloways opened a new restaurant down the street, they’ve become our arch-business rivals. There are only so many hotspots in Vansborough. And the Holloway vs. Stinson feud has started to bleed into everything—including who gets the Friday night crowd.
Uncle Dan’s right. It doesn’t make sense for them to show up here, especially not this week.
It feels like a power move. A statement. A middle finger.
Which makes me even more annoyed.
But honestly? I couldn’t care less about the feud right now.
My emotions are a train wreck. Keith just detonated my entire future with a half-smile and a bottle of wine.
Still, I shove all that down as I step up to the Holloways’ table.
“Hey, y’all,” I say, forcing a smile as I pass out menus. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”
You can tell a lot about a table by how they order.
And right now,every single man at the tableis looking at him.
Hunter Holloway.
He’s two years older than me. We went to the same high school. We even spent a week at the same Bible camp when I was fourteen—back when I still had braces and couldn’t get through a sentence around a cute boy without blushing or choking on my own spit.
Everyone in Vansborough knows who Hunter is.
Trailer park boy turned football legend.
Now the quarterback for the Houston Texans, home for the summer until training camp starts in July.
When those dark eyes lift to meet mine, I freeze.
He doesn’t smile.
He just clenches that perfectly square jaw, and for a second, I feel like a rabbit caught in a trap.
My stomach tightens. My skin prickles.
I’ve always been a little scared of Hunter Holloway.
His name fits him—he moves like a predator. Quiet. Sure. Dangerous.
Like he could ruin you with a whisper.
Still silent, he drags a hand down his jaw, over freshly-shaven skin, then gives a subtle nod to the guy seated next to him—his best friend, Ty.
I keep my smile in place, even as heat crawls up the back of my neck.
