by Sarah Skye
PRAISE FOR SARAH SKYE
"Sarah Skye gives us growth and redemption in this sexy sequel."
CHARISH REID, AUTHOR OF (TRUST) FALLING FOR YOU
"Some books are meant to be savored. This is one of those books. A dazzling blend of misconceptions and redemption, of second chances and forgiveness, Vibes & Feels is a delightful romp pitting former enemies Morgan and Marco as newfound friends. Their undeniable chemistry and mounting attraction is fast-paced and swoon-worthy, while the richly developed familial plot tugs at your heart. Prepare to find yourself begging for the next book from Sarah Skye!"
LINDSAY LANDGRAF HESS, AUTHOR OF STORYSINGER
"Vibes & Feels by Sarah Skye completely lives up to its name! I know that when I pick up a Sarah Skye book, it's going to be a memorable read, but this story blew me away with its bad boy redemption plotline. Make this your next contemporary romance read. You'll cry, you'll cheer, and you'll swoon!"
ROSANNA LEO, AUTHOR OF THE HANDYMEN SERIES
"A stunning romance, where every character felt whole and alive. I absolutely adored this book."
JL PERIDOT, AUTHOR OF IT STARTS WITH A KISS
VIBES & FEELS
SARAH SKYE
For all you free spirits, reformed douchebags, and everyone in between. This book is for you.
CONTENTS
1. Marco
2. Morgan
3. Marco
4. Morgan
5. Marco
6. Morgan
7. Marco
8. Morgan
9. Marco
10. Morgan
11. Marco
12. Morgan
13. Marco
14. Morgan
15. Marco
16. Morgan
17. Marco
18. Morgan
19. Marco
20. Morgan
21. Marco
22. Morgan
23. Marco
24. Morgan
25. Marco
26. Morgan
27. Marco
28. Morgan
29. Marco
30. Morgan
31. Epilogue
Marco
32. Epilogue
Morgan
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Sarah Skye
1
MARCO
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
These are the words I’m aching to speak. But I don’t. Because I’m in public. With my family, in a stuffy-ass restaurant that they insist on eating at every time my prick older brother has something to celebrate.
But if I were to say, “you have got to be fucking kidding me” out loud, it would be justified. Because this is what is happening right now:
My brother Leo has just grabbed a bottle of champagne from our server’s hands. Instead of saying, “yes, please” when the server kindly offered to uncork it, Leo shook his head, swiped it from him, and stood up. He fucking stood up. And then he winked and said, “I got this.” And then, because he has piss-poor aim and an ego the size of an iceberg, when he popped the cork, it landed in the soup bowl of an elderly lady at a nearby table. The entire restaurant gasped.
And of course, like the smug jerk he is, he just shrugged and muttered, “sorry.” Then he poured himself a glass of champagne and plopped back down in his seat.
And our parents? They didn’t give a fuck. Dad just chuckled and said, “You’re a riot, son.” Mom flagged down a nearby server for her third martini before we’ve even gotten our food. I don’t even know if she realized anything happened just now, she’s so blitzed out on vodka and whatever else she’s on.
And that’s why I’m counting the threads on the stark white tablecloth instead of saying a word. Even if I did, it wouldn’t make one bit of difference.
“It's been a long time coming, this promotion,” Leo says, running a hand through his hair that’s the same shade of black-brown as his suit.
I scoff. He always has to look so goddamn coordinated all the time. Never a thread or a hair out of place, even when he’s doing shit that doesn’t matter—like hanging out at his house or working out. He’s always got a coordinating outfit, and his hair is styled like he’s headed to a club.
He glares at me. I brace myself for whatever insult he’s about to lob my way, but Dad pipes in.
“A year and a half isn’t a long time coming at all,” Dad corrects, his gruff voice firm. “That’s a natural progression for this kind of job.”
And then he spews the story we’ve all heard a million times about how he built his investment banking company from the ground-up with ten dollars in his pocket and zero help from anyone. I grit my teeth, aching to call bullshit. Ten dollars goes a long way when your grandfather dies and leaves you millions in inheritance. He always conveniently leaves out that part. And I know why—his rags-to-riches story sounds so much more compelling when he lies about it.
“You needed time, Leo,” Dad says. “I didn’t want it to look like nepotism, promoting my own son.”
I laugh into the ice in my glass, catching one between my teeth. I crunch on it, the sound apparently loud enough to earn a glare from my mom. I mutter a sorry and swallow down the icy shards.
“Is something funny, Marco?” Dad asks, his stare pointed and annoyed.
I should be used to it. It’s how he’s looked at me my whole life. But the truth is that it hurts every single time. It’s a reminder of just how much he can’t stand me, how he tolerates my existence instead of embracing me into his life like he does with Leo. It’s always been that way. I suspect it always will be.
Especially after what I did last year.
I shake my head. “Nope. Nothing’s funny.”
Leo tilts his head at me. This time, all of the muscles in my core tighten. He’s gearing up for a fight. I need to be ready.
“I mean, if we want to bring up funny things, we can just talk about you, can’t we?” He speaks with a glass of champagne in his hand, like he’s getting ready to roast me.
I swallow and glare at him. “Really? I don’t think anything I’ve done recently counts as funny. More like tragic. And fucking stupid.”
He flinches at the bite in my tone, and the muscles in my stomach ease the slightest bit. I don’t think he was expecting me to say that.
But then the look in his eyes darkens. We have the same eye color—that gold-brown hue our mom has too. But at this moment, I don’t see myself in him at all. All I see is a stranger hell-bent on tearing me down.
“Wow. Just laying it all out on the table, aren’t we?” he spits.
I tug the collar of my shirt, then loosen my tie. Keeping eye contact with him, I shrug. I may as well have punched him in the face for how incensed he looks at my silent response.
He sets down his champagne glass. Dad lets out a heavy sigh and rolls his eyes.
“Let’s see,” Leo practically growls. “A little over a year ago, you took a grenade to your life. That’s probably the best way to describe it, isn’t it? Weren’t you the one who tried to pick up your ex-girlfriend at your own wedding rehearsal dinner? With your fiancée in the next room? The night before you were supposed to get married? And then didn’t you get your nose broken by your ex’s boyfriend?”
The muscle in his jaw twitches as he looks at me. “Oh, wait. I should say, ex-fiancée.”
Something in the center of my chest tightens. A bitter laugh falls from my lips. I
t only seems to spur him on.
“And then you got fired. Because genius that you are, your old boss is your ex-girlfriend’s dad and of course that’s some grade-A thinking right there. ‘I’ll corner my boss’s daughter and proposition her. No way that could come back and bite me in the ass. It’s not like he could blacklist me from my entire field and I’d end up an unemployed loser for the foreseeable future because no law firm will hire me since everyone thinks I’m a slimeball.’”
Mom makes a “hmph” sound as she sips her millionth martini, nodding along with Leo.
A taunting smile pulls at his lips, and I lose the breath in my lungs. I know that look better than I know my own face. That’s the face he pulled often when we were kids and he beat up on me or made fun of me for some random, inconsequential thing. Like he was taunting me to fight back, even though he knew I was smaller and weaker and couldn’t.
But I’m all grown up now. There’s no discernible size difference between us anymore. We’re both tall and broad, and if we were to throw down, it’s anyone’s guess who would win.
But emotionally? There’s absolutely nothing that I care to have in common with my brother.
“That’s enough,” Dad interrupts. “We don’t need to keep bringing up your brother’s past mistakes. It’s embarrassing.”
Embarrassing.
The way he speaks the word, like it’s a personal affront to him, sets off something inside of me.
I pivot my gaze to him. “Embarrassing for who? You or me?”
His frown is a mix of disgust and confusion. “What are you talking about, Marco?”
I loosen my tie even more and pop the top button of my shirt, annoyed that I bothered to dress up for dinner with my family who so clearly hates that I’m one of them.
“I just want to know. Do you only care about me ruining my life because of how it makes you look?”
“What?”
Realization hits like a brick to the face. My family is toxic as fuck. They don’t care about me—they only care about how I make them look. They’ve only ever cared about appearances, how people and things make them appear to their friends and coworkers.
Yes, I’m a scumbag. I ruined my engagement to Harmony in the most hurtful way. I cheated on her and my ex-girlfriend, Lily, and every other girlfriend I’ve ever had. I’ve been selfish and self-involved in every relationship I’ve ever been in. If there’s a douchebag of the year award, I deserve to win it every single time.
But my family has no right to berate me, to act like they’re above me. Because they’re just as bad. And I’m just now realizing it.
I shove back from the table, still in my seat. And then I take a breath, roll my shoulders, and aim my gaze at Leo.
“You’re right. I’m a pathetic loser for what I did. But don’t act like you’re some saint. Where the hell is Heather tonight? Why isn’t she here?”
Leo’s expression twists. “She’s busy.”
“Really? You sure she’s not here because you don’t want her to know that you slept with half the servers in this place and never called them back?”
I catch the bartender and server at the next table staring daggers at Leo.
I lean forward and lower my voice. “I’d probably think twice about eating when your food comes. Someone definitely spit in it.”
I straighten up in my chair, my heart racing. “And don’t for one second pretend that you got promoted at Dad’s company through merit. That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard. His company is the only one you’ve ever worked for, and you’ve coasted the entire time. Have you ever put in a full eight-hour day? I know just how shitty your work ethic is. All you do is charge lunches and hotel stays on the company card.”
I pivot my gaze to our parents, who are looking at me wide-eyed.
“Did you know that? Have you checked with your accounting department lately?” I say to Dad. “Golden Boy here is going to spend you and your company to your last dime. And you promoted him. Well done.”
Dad starts to scold me, but I stop him. “I’ve spent the past year sitting silently at dinners just like this one where you and Leo take shots at me while Mom sits by, numbing herself with alcohol. That ends tonight. You wanna know why I’m such a fucked-up scumbag who can’t keep a relationship? It’s because of you, Mom and Dad. My entire life I watched as the two of you turned infidelity into an Olympic sport.”
Mom stammers, her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. If she’d stop getting botox, her expression would be even more shocked than it is. But even now the horror is clearly written on her face.
I tug up the sleeves of my dress shirt. Did someone crank the heat up in this place? It’s like my skin is on fire.
“I take full responsibility for how awful I was to Harmony and Lily and every other woman I’ve been with. I was a jerk to almost all of them, and that’s no one’s fault but my own. But can you really be all that surprised that your son is a cheating prick when the both of you are too?”
Just then I realize how strained my voice is. I’m nearly shouting. I lean back into my chair and look around. Every single patron, server, food runner, and busboy is staring at me right now. They’ve got a front-row seat to my freakout, and I’m giving them a hell of a show.
My face is on fire. I’m embarrassed for sure, but at the same time, I feel… alive. Invigorated in a way I’ve never felt before. I’ve never been this honest and open with anyone my whole life. Sure as hell not my family. If I was sad or upset as a kid, they didn’t care. Emotions were inconvenient, and the best way to deal with them was to shove them deep down inside. So I’ve lived my entire life that way.
Not anymore.
There’s something cathartic about unleashing on my family. I feel so light and unburdened. A small part of me even wants to laugh.
Dad leans over to me. “You are humiliating us. You get a hold of yourself right this instant.”
And that’s when I lose it for good. My head falls back and I let out a full-on belly laugh. When I look over at my brother and my parents, I cackle even harder. They all look so mortified, so horrified, and I can’t handle it.
“Screw this.” I stand up from the table. “I’m done with you guys. I’m done with the berating, the snide comments, the way you treat me like I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to this family when you all have done just as many horrible things.”
I look around at the dozens of pairs of eyeballs glued to me. “Fuck this, right? Fuck your family making you feel worthless when they’re just as awful as you! Fuck toxic families! Fuck toxic families!”
I chant “fuck toxic families” a few more times with my fist in the air until the deafening silence makes it clear that no one is going to join in.
I stop and slowly lower my hand. And that’s when self-awareness hits. I’ve publicly lost my shit on my family, and I need to get the hell out of here.
I dart in the direction of the front of the restaurant, but when I get to the narrow steps that lead that way to the entry, a woman with two slow-moving toddlers gets in front of me. I slow my speed-walk to a crawl, absorbing every whisper and stare from the surrounding diners.
They turn left for the bathrooms, and I hurry the rest of the way out. But before I even make it to the door, I remember my car keys are with the valet. I groan and turn around to quietly wait for the maître d’, who’s talking on the restaurant phone. He scowls at me, probably because he isn’t a fan of how I turned dinner service at his five-star restaurant into my own personal vent session.
As I wait, I shift my weight between my feet, antsy as hell. I spin around and immediately collide with someone. She wobbles while apologizing, and I grab her to steady her.
“No, my fault, I was—”
I freeze as I look at the person standing in front of me. I immediately pull my hands off of her.
That dyed-blonde hair. Those blue eyes that always seem to look right through me, that are right now staring at me with confusion. Clearly, she
doesn’t remember me like I remember her. I gulp and break into a cold sweat.
Shit.
2
MORGAN
‘I’ll hook you up. He’s, like, crazy hot. And tall. And has muscles for days.’
And is an absolute tool.
I prop my chin in my hand and try to nod along to whatever Crazy Hot Tool is saying. Something about the great sous vide vs. grilling debate. Apparently, it’s the stuff of legend, and I am woefully sheltered to be so uninformed. Not to worry, he’s going to be sure I can lead a seminar on his meat preferences before the evening is over.
It’s not that I don’t admire someone who cares about their work. Quite the opposite. I love when people are passionate about what they do. It’s more of the way this guy ordered for me and then proceeded to turn our date into a monologue about his life and opinions that has me colder than the raw tuna steak he’s droning on about.
Oh, Harmony. I should’ve known not to let you set me up. Bless your heart, but you don’t know my type at all.
My type. What does that even mean?
I frown into my drink as my brain hooks onto that thought. At twenty, I’d have said my type was Tom Hiddleston. At twenty-five, I’d have said my type was hardworking, down-to-earth, and socially woke. But here, a week after my 30th birthday, I have to admit that I no longer know how to answer that question.