Page 30

Story: The Feud

30

FAITH

T he gravel crunches beneath the tires as we turn down a long wooded drive, tall oaks and pines arching overhead like a tunnel of secrets. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the hood of Hunter’s truck in gold. It smells like lake air and pine needles. Fresh. Wide open.

“Whoa,” I say, sitting up straighter. “This is the lake house?”

Hunter glances over at me, smirking. “I did say it was nice.”

Nice is an understatement.

The trees part, and the house comes into view—two stories, wraparound porch, big wooden beams and whitewashed siding. There’s a hammock swinging between two trees, and in the distance I catch a glimpse of the lake, still and sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

Daphne lets out a low whistle. “Okay, Holloway . I see you.”

Hunter parks, cuts the engine, and hops out, grabbing a bag from the back.

I open the door, step down, and inhale deep. It’s quiet in a different way than the outskirts of Vansborough. Calmer. Like something here doesn’t expect anything from me.

Hunter comes around to my side, just as the front door opens.

And then I freeze.

A woman stands there in a white sundress and sandals, her auburn hair piled on her head, a glass of iced tea in her hand. She smiles—kind, but wide-eyed—and I just know.

Hunter stops short next to me. “Mom. Hey.”

Mom?

Oh no.

I stare at him, throat tightening. He invited me to a lake house weekend with his mom here?

Daphne, from behind us, murmurs, “Wait, is that your mom?”

Hunter’s mom waves warmly. “Hi, y’all!”

“Mom. This is my friend, Faith.”

“Is this the same Faith you told me about?”

Hunter’s face actually turns a ruddy shade of red.

I shoot him a look that says, you told her about me ?

I blink. “Uh. Hi.”

Hunter looks like he wants to say something, but I raise one eyebrow in his direction.

So this was the plan?

I plaster on a smile, southern-girl style. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Holloway.”

“Oh honey,” she says, stepping down the porch steps, “Call me Margot.”

Margot pulls me into a hug before I can even decide whether I’m still mad or just deeply confused.

My heart’s pounding.

Hunter leans close, voice low near my ear. “She decided last second that this was going to be a lake house weekend. Sorry. I probably should have mentioned that.”

I stare at him for a beat. My pulse spikes.

“Too late,” I whisper back through clenched teeth.

And the wildest part?

Somewhere deep down… a small part of me doesn’t hate it.

But I’m definitely going to make him squirm first.

Hunter’s mom leads the way up the porch, chatting like we’re already family. I trail behind her, still reeling, while Hunter brushes his hand against my lower back like some kind of comfort. Too late for that, Thor.

Inside, the lake house is all worn wood and cozy charm—walls filled with family photos, wide windows overlooking the water, the scent of something buttery and baked already wafting from the kitchen.

“Okay!” Margot claps her hands together once we’re inside. “Tonight’s simple—grilled chicken and roasted veggies for dinner, then a bonfire down by the shore. S’mores, of course.”

“That sounds amazing,” Daphne says, already perking up as she sets her bag down by the stairs. “I need this weekend so bad. Just to breathe, you know?” She glances at me, then back at Margot. “Love my baby girl more than life, but I swear if I hear Baby Shark one more time, I might legally change my name and flee the state.”

We all laugh—Hunter too, though I can feel him watching me from the corner of his eye, like he’s trying to read the temperature.

“Faith, you okay?” Daphne murmurs under her breath as we follow Margot into the kitchen.

“Mm-hmm.” I plaster on a bright smile. “Just taking it all in.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go.

Hunter lingers behind the others as we walk. His voice is low when he says, “She really did show up last second. I didn’t plan this.”

I glance at him, lips twitching. “Uh-huh.”

He sighs. “C’mon. Don’t go full silent treatment on me now.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I whisper sweetly, “I’ll still talk. Just not sure you’ll like what I have to say.”

Hunter groans, and I smirk.

Because if I’m going to be stuck playing lakehouse charades with his mother , I’m absolutely going to make sure he feels every second of it.

The dining table is set out on the screened-in porch, overlooking the lake where the sun’s starting to dip low, turning the water gold. Cicadas hum in the distance. Margot’s put together a spread that would make a Southern Living magazine cover weep—grilled chicken with rosemary, roasted potatoes, a kale salad with strawberries and feta, and homemade biscuits that somehow melt in my mouth.

Daphne is halfway through her second biscuit when she sighs and leans back. “I forgot what it feels like to eat food I didn’t microwave while holding a baby on my hip.”

Margot laughs and reaches for the lemonade pitcher. “Well, we’re glad to have you, sweetheart. You deserve the break.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Daphne says, raising her glass.

I nod along, smiling, but I can feel Hunter’s gaze on me like a low-grade burn. He’s sitting across the table, diagonally, trying not to be obvious about looking at me, but he is. Every time I glance up, his jaw tics like he wants to say something but knows better.

“So Faith,” Margot says suddenly, slicing through the silence. “How long have you been working with Hunter?”

I nearly choke on my chicken. “Oh—uh, not long.”

Daphne clears her throat. “She’s a quick learner though. Already bringing in triple the tips I am.”

“That’s because she smiles with her eyes,” Hunter says casually.

I look at him. He looks right back. There’s a pause thick enough to spread on toast.

“Is that so?” I say, tone syrupy.

He nods once. “It is.”

Daphne snorts and mouths what is happening at me.

Margot, bless her, keeps chatting, blissfully unaware—or pretending to be. “Well, whatever it is, I like you, Faith. You’ve got good energy.”

“Thank you,” I say, honestly touched—and vaguely panicked by how fast this entire trip has escalated.

Hunter’s foot brushes against mine under the table.

I don’t move it.

But I do cut him a sharp glance, then calmly steal the last biscuit from the serving plate and take a slow, dramatic bite.

He watches every second of it.

“Y’all are wild,” Daphne mutters under her breath.

And the thing is—I know she’s right.

And dinner hasn’t even ended yet.

* * *

The sound of Daphne and Margot’s laughter drifts down the hallway as they head out toward the bonfire. I linger by the sink, rinsing plates and trying to act like my body isn’t on high alert. The porch light casts a warm glow through the window above the sink, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that it’s just the two of us now.

Hunter’s beside me, drying dishes, silent. But the air between us is anything but quiet.

I can feel him watching me—my bare arms, the curve of my waist, the stretch of my tank top as I lean forward. I shouldn’t like it. But I do.

“You’re dangerous when you’re domestic,” he finally mutters.

I glance at him, smirking. “Oh yeah? You into girls who can rinse a plate?”

He chuckles low in his throat, setting the dish towel down slowly. “Not usually.”

I raise a brow. “But?”

“But you? Yeah. You make even this look hot.” His voice drops. “And it’s driving me fucking insane.”

I open my mouth to sass him, but he’s already moved behind me, one hand slipping around my waist. I suck in a breath as he presses close, his chest to my back, lips grazing the curve of my neck.

“You know what I want?” he murmurs.

I nod slowly. “You already have your hands on it.”

He groans softly. “No, baby. I mean, yeah—but I want you . I want you so bad I can’t think straight.”

He spins me gently, pressing me against the counter. His mouth crashes into mine and I melt instantly, clinging to his shoulders as his hands roam greedily over my waist, my back, my hips. I kiss him like I’m starving—because God help me, I am.

His hands slide under my tank top, thumbs brushing my ribs, just shy of my bra. “Say the word and I’ll carry you to that guest room so fast…”

“I want you to so bad…”

He kisses me again, deeper this time—urgent, searing. I clutch his shoulders, and his grip tightens on my waist like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

In one swift move, he lifts me, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his hips. My back hits the wall, but I don’t care. I’m clinging to him, kissing him like we’re already naked, already halfway to burning the whole house down.

He grinds into me once, and I gasp into his mouth, my nails raking across his shoulder blades.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine for a split second before going back to my mouth like he can’t get enough.

We’re interrupted by the unmistakable slam of the back door.

Our eyes fly open. I scramble down off him just as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it at me, snatching up a plate with military speed.

We’re both standing like picture-perfect coworkers when Margot steps into the kitchen, eyebrows arched, holding an empty roasting stick and that knowing Southern smile.

“I was just wondering if y’all could bring the extra chocolate bars,” she says sweetly. “Daphne already burned two.”

My face is on fire. “Of course,” I manage.

“Great! Don’t forget the graham crackers, too.” She disappears back down the hall like nothing just happened.

Hunter scrubs a hand over his face, laughing under his breath. “So…that happened.”

I’m still breathless. “That almost happened.”

We stare at each other, both buzzing, both wondering what exactly this is turning into.

Then I clear my throat and grab the chocolate. “Let’s go before she comes back and catches us making s’mores on each other.”

He laughs. “Rain check?”

My heart flips. I shoot him a smirk. “We’ll see.”

And with that, we head down toward the fire, hearts pounding.

Just as we’re stepping onto the back porch, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

“Damn, I thought this thing was on silent,” I mutter, tugging it out.

“You could leave it in your room,” Hunter suggests. “No phones necessary at the bonfire.”

“True. Let me just see what it?—”

I trail off as I read the name.

My chest tightens. I swipe it open.

Keith: You can’t be serious. Hunter Holloway’s lake house? Wow. You really have no morals, do you. No sense of loyalty. To me or even your own family.

The words feel like they’ve been dipped in acid.

I blink, the glow from the screen burning against the night.

Hunter glances over. “Everything okay?”

I lock the screen.

“Fine,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “Just someone who doesn’t know when to stop texting.”

He doesn’t press, and I’m grateful.

As we walk toward the fire, I’m not thinking about chocolate or stars or lakefront breezes.

I’m thinking about how badly I want to burn that old version of me—the one who would’ve felt guilty for this.

Because for once? I don’t.

“Faith, sweetheart—come sit by me,” Margot calls the second we step onto the sand, waving a wine glass in one hand and a marshmallow skewer in the other. “Hunter, you’re on firewood duty.”

I glance at him. He rolls his eyes but obeys, trudging off to the pile of logs.

I drop into the seat beside Margot, and she immediately hands me a glass of red wine and a perfectly golden s’more, wrapped in a napkin like it’s some sacred offering.

“This one’s for you,” she says with a wink. “Not burned. Unlike the ones Daphne keeps setting on fire.”

“Lies,” Daphne mutters from across the fire, grinning. “I made that one. She just stole it.”

I laugh, genuinely, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere real. I can’t remember the last time I felt this… loose. Light.

Margot sips her wine, eyes tracking her son as he squats near the fire, all biceps and brooding focus. “He used to be so clumsy, you wouldn’t believe it.”

I blink. “Hunter? Clumsy?”

She nods, eyes twinkling. “Oh honey, he tripped over everything. Shoelaces, rugs, air. One time he got his head stuck in the stair railing. Trying to impress a neighbor girl. We had to butter his ears to get him out.”

Hunter groans from the fire pit. “Mom.”

“Oh hush, it’s cute,” she says, waving him off.

Daphne’s laughing, and now I am too. It’s hard not to when the picture is so vivid—tiny Hunter with a football in one hand and slippery ears stuck between railings.

Margot leans toward me, lowering her voice like she’s letting me in on some sacred family intel. “He brought a toy football everywhere as a kid. Even to church. One Sunday, he dove into the center aisle during the sermon and shouted, ‘FUMBLE RECOVERY!’ before spiking it at the altar.’”

I nearly snort wine out my nose.

Hunter groans louder. “I was six.”

Margot shrugs, not even a little apologetic. “Still one of my proudest moments as a mother.”

And just like that… something shifts.

This doesn’t feel like a fling. It doesn’t even feel casual.

This feels like belonging.

And I don’t know what to do with that.