Page 2 of Just Between Us

“Is that why there are two kids hiding in the alley over there?” Luna pointed to the preteen boys I’d paid two hundred bucks to execute the prank.

I lifted a shoulder. “It’s a two-part plan.”

Luna sighed and shook her head. “I thought the Sullivan-King rivalry was all but dead?”

I straightened. “First of all, it’s theKing-Sullivan rivalry.” I shrugged. “Just because my sister married Duke Sullivan doesn’t mean we can’t still have a little fun.”

Luna’s lips pursed. She knew my sister Sylvie and how I’d likely get an ass-chewing once she found out, but I didn’t care. At least not enough to stop me.

“Besides,” I continued, “Beckett Miller isn’ttechnicallya Sullivan.” I stood, proudly crossing my arms and smiling to myself. Skirting the rules was an innate talent I prided myself on.

“He married Kate Sullivan. It counts,” Luna argued as we watched and waited.

I grumbled but let it go. I fucking hated it when my sisters were pissed at me, but the look on Beckett’s face when the prank was executed would definitely be worth it.

I checked my watch and felt the familiar buzz of impatience. Finding his car parked on Main Street was a stroke of luck, but he should have gotten his day started already.

“So it is true ... ,” Luna said, and I glanced at her as she continued: “Men equate the size of their cars with the size of their dicks.” Her eyes scraped down my front and back up before she lifted a brow. “That lift kit get installed on your truck yet?”

“Fuck off.” I gestured toward myself. “I’m a tall guy.”

“Mm-hmm.” Luna rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. “Funny ... I don’t remember Beckett still having Illinois license plates.”

My body went rigid.

My eyes flicked down to the back bumper of the black Range Rover, confirming the car’s plates were, in fact, from Illinois.Beckett had lived in Outtatowner long enough to have registered his car with the state of Michigan.

Shit.

I watched with wide-eyed horror as a woman in heels, with impossibly long legs, approached the Range Rover. She paused by the vehicle, something catching her eye.

My gaze soaked up her long, smooth legs. She was wearing tall, shiny black heels and a matching skirt that hugged the luscious flare of her hips. Her cream blouse was loose and tucked into the high waist of her tight knee-length skirt.

Inky-black hair tumbled down her back in delicate waves. I was struck by how out of place her beauty was. Her look seemed better suited for an office or courtroom than the streets of our sleepy town as the morning yawned awake.

The woman stopped by the hood of her car, looking at what I assumed were the broken eggshells. Her dark eyebrows lowered as she lifted a shell with two fingers to examine it. With a frown, she flicked the egg to the ground and stomped it under her high heel.

“Oh ... ,” Luna remarked, stifling a laugh. “You fucked up.”

Luna and I watched in slow-motion horror as the young boys sneaked out of their hiding place. To my horror, even though the young boys had been given explicit instructions to execute the harmless prank on Beckett, they forged ahead. I cringed as, from across the roadway, we could hear them shout, “Have some milk with those eggs!”

Without a second thought, the boys each tossed an opened carton of milk—which I had supplied from the general store, by the way—onto her chest.

I groaned. She gasped. They ran.

Several tourists stopped, their eyes round in stunned horror, fingertips pressed to their lips.

Okay, this was one hundred percent too far.

The errant thought danced across my conscience. It was supposed to be harmless. Funny. I wanted to dampen Beckett’s day and have a good laugh about it, not assault a gorgeous, unsuspecting stranger.

I’d really stepped in it this time. Guilt racked me and my stomach roiled.

From the Sugar Bowl next door to us, my sister Sylvie burst through the glass door with a white towel in her hand. She crossed the street with quick steps and immediately went to work helping the woman clean up. Tourists folded around them as my sister and the mystery woman fussed to get her shirt dry.

The woman’s creamy blouse was plastered to her chest, revealing the perfect shape of her tits and what appeared to be a colored bra beneath the now-soaked fabric. Sylvie eventually handed over her dish towel, and the woman patted her face dry.

The mystery woman’s gaze sliced through the crowd, her expression set on deadly revenge.

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