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FAITH

I mean, look—it’s not like I’m a rocket scientist, but I take pride in what I’m learning at Greene State. It’s one of the best colleges in the Midwest. I worked my ass off to get there.

I love to read. Writing and journalism have always been my thing.

Not that I’m about to shout all that across a crowded restaurant at Keith.

I don't need to remind him Greene State calls itself The Harvard of the Midwest. (According to the brochure, anyway.)

I head toward the table that’s been waving me down, only for Aunt Miranda to cut me off at the pass.

“Faith, what’s going on at table eighteen? One of them says she didn’t order the fried fish—she says she asked for the fish dinner. Why are you having such trouble remembering the difference between the two?”

My fist clenches. “Seat one? The older woman?”

“Yes,” Aunt Miranda says, already judging.

“She ordered the fried fish,” I mutter.

I’d had a sixth sense she meant the grilled fish dinner instead, but I was double-sat and didn’t have time to walk her through the menu like I normally would’ve.

“Well, she says everyone else ordered the fish dinner, and she thought she did too.”

“Fine. I’ll fix it.”

I head over, planting my best customer-service smile on my face.

“Hi, ma’am. I’m terribly sorry about the mix-up.”

Inside? I feel like I could throw up. Too many emotions, not enough oxygen.

“You should be,” she snaps. “Now I’ll have to sit here and watch everyone else eat while my stomach growls.”

“I’ll have the kitchen fire that up right away.”

“Yes, you will. And you’ll take it off the bill.”

My jaw tightens.

I was going to suggest that. But I’ve never taken kindly to orders .

I rush back to the kitchen and beg our chef—my Uncle Dan—for a rush order.

“The things I do for you, Faith,” he mutters.

That’s the thing about working at a family restaurant. Every favor comes with a tab—emotional or otherwise—and it always comes due.

Dan glances past me, into the dining room. “Is that Hunter Holloway?”

“Yep.”

“What the hell is that son of a bitch doing in our place? They run out of food next door?”

“Uh… he’s probably hungry?”

“They just opened that shiny new bar down the street. Why the hell would they come here now?”

“I don’t know. But I do know I need that fish dinner, like, yesterday.”

Dan grunts, but plates it fast. I grab it and hurry back out.

Thankfully, once the older woman takes her first bite, she softens. Crisis averted—for now.

I drop off the wine and perch at Keith and Dave’s table with a little more force than necessary.

“Keith,” I say, trying to keep my voice low, “can we please talk about this?”

I hate how I sound. Desperate.

Like I’m clinging.

Damn it—I’m begging. And I hate feeling weak.

“Babe.” Keith gives me that easy grin. “You know it’s all going to work out. Relax. It’s just a little Rumspringa.”

“So… a break. You want a break.”

“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 table is 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.

But I can feel it—Hunter’s gaze burning through me.

Our eyes lock.

And hold.

My heart skips. Trips. Then takes off in a sprint.

It’s not the same feeling I got with Keith.

This is something else. Something wild. Raw.

When his hand drops from his face to rest on the table, I track the movement like a heat-seeking missile.

His forearms are ridiculous—corded with muscle, tan, veined in all the right places.

And then, just when I think I can breathe again, that smirk appears.

The one that never quite leaves Hunter Holloway’s face.

“Do you need a picture with him?” Ty asks, grinning. “You’re kinda staring.”

“What? No. Of course not.”

But I am.

Hunter doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.

His eyes sweep down me, then climb back up, lingering.

I’ve never hated my server uniform more.

Jeans, a tucked-in chambray shirt, and a black apron that does nothing to hide the fact that I’m… curvier than most.

Aunt Miranda once called me “pear-shaped” like it was a death sentence.

Right now, I feel like my body is on display .

And the worst part? I don’t hate the way Hunter is looking at me.

I drop my eyes to my server pad like it holds the answer to life itself.

I can’t keep looking at him.

It’s like staring at the sun—too bright. Too much.

How long did we hold eye contact?

Two seconds? Ten?

Whatever it was, we just shared a moment.

I felt it.

“We’ll all take a round of Easton Red Town Ale to start,” Ty says. “That’s local, right?”

“Yeah,” I reply, scribbling it down, trying not to let my hand shake.

Ty leans in, still amused. “Except for Hunter. He’ll take the cider.”

“Of course,” I say, still pretending I haven’t noticed that Hunter hasn’t spoken a single word to me.

To be honest, I’m not even sure I’d recognize his voice if I heard it.

We haven’t talked since high school. I don’t watch much football.

I turn to walk away, and swear I can feel his eyes following me.

Just to check, I glance over my shoulder.

Yep.

Still watching.

Still smirking.

Heat pulses low in my belly. Uninvited.

Totally inappropriate.

Everything with Keith is still swirling inside me like a fresh wound, and now this?

Turned on by a look ?

Even if I were fully single, Hunter Holloway is basically a walking scandal.

He’s a Holloway.

My dad would disown me. My Aunt Miranda might light me on fire.

And besides, he knows I’m taken .

Nobody—not even his cocky self—knows we might be “on a break.”

My stomach twists as Keith’s Rumspringa speech replays in my head.

I don’t want to think about it anymore.

Now I have a whole new dilemma.

Do I have a crush on Hunter Holloway?

Or more accurately…does my body have a crush on him?

Guilt snakes through me.

Shame, too.

This isn’t who I am.

Hunter’s the kind of guy who knows exactly what he looks like.

Exactly what he can get.

Not. My. Type.

I punch their drink order into the POS like it’s done something to offend me and try to focus.

But I can still feel him.

Watching.

Still wondering what his hands would feel like on my skin.

And the worst part?

I want to find out.

Which is ridiculous, because since Keith and I slept together, he hasn’t touched me at all.

I shake that thought away.

Aunt Miranda flits past, giving me her signature move it eyes and a pointed glance toward another waving table.

Any breakdowns or emotional revelations will have to wait.

My shift isn’t over.

And whatever’s happening with Hunter Holloway?

It’s not a real crush.

It’s proximity. It’s biology. It’s... nerves.

But the way his forearm flexed when he leaned on the table?

Yeah.

I pretend not to notice how my thighs clenched.

“Hey, Faith,” a voice calls from behind me.

I turn, startled.

One of the high schoolers bussing tables peers at me with wide eyes.

“Did table eighteen ever get their fish dinner?”

I blink.

Right.

The damn fish dinner.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Crisis averted.”

Barely.