Hooked on my Ex's Uncle!

Chapter 3.

3.

The black car’s taillights vanished into the Brooklyn night, leaving an eerie silence that pressed against my apartment windows. My phone burned in my hand, Rosemary’s cryptic text glaring up at me: *“Stay away from him, Sloane. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”* My pulse hammered, each beat a question I couldn’t answer. Who was she warning me about—Archer, with his endless excuses, or Vincent, with his dangerous pull? And that car—had it been her, watching me, or someone else entirely? I locked the deadbolt, the click loud in the quiet, and sank onto my couch, clutching my sketchbook like a lifeline. But the blank page stared back, as empty as my heart.

I couldn’t shake the image of Vincent’s blue eyes, the way they’d pinned me in that bar, or Liam’s quiet plea to let Archer go. My life was unraveling, and I was caught in a web of men who saw me as something to fight for—or fight over. Rosemary’s text felt like a blade, sharp and personal. She’d always hated me, her icy glares and lingering touches on Archer a constant reminder that I was the outsider in her world. But this? This was new. This was a threat.

I glanced at Vincent’s text again: *“Coffee, 10 a.m., The Bean on 7th.”* My fingers itched to reply, to dive into whatever reckless fire he offered, but Rosemary’s warning stopped me. What did she know? And why did she care? I tossed the phone onto the coffee table, its clatter echoing in my tiny apartment. The fairy lights strung along my windows cast a soft glow, but they couldn’t chase away the shadows creeping into my thoughts.

Sleep was a lost cause. I paced, my bare feet cold against the hardwood, replaying the day. Archer’s text, Liam’s return, Vincent’s touch—it was too much, too fast. I needed answers, not more questions. Grabbing my phone, I typed a reply to Vincent: *How did you get my number?* My thumb hovered over send, but I deleted it. Too confrontational. Too weak. Instead, I typed, *Okay. See you tomorrow.* I hit send before I could overthink it, my heart lurching as the message whooshed away.

Morning came too soon, the spring sunlight slicing through my curtains. I dragged myself out of bed, my head pounding from whiskey and worry. My apartment smelled of coffee and old paint, a familiar comfort that did little to ease the knot in my stomach. I pulled on jeans, a loose blouse, and my scuffed Converse, avoiding the white dress still crumpled on my chair—a ghost of yesterday’s failure. I checked my phone. No reply from Vincent. No more texts from Rosemary. Just Archer’s voicemail, still deleted but haunting me.

The Bean on 7th was a cozy coffee shop, all exposed brick and mismatched chairs, the kind of place where artists and hipsters nursed lattes and dreams. I arrived early, claiming a corner table by the window, the glass streaked with last night’s rain. The air smelled of espresso and cinnamon, but my nerves were too raw to enjoy it. I fidgeted with a sugar packet, my eyes darting to the door every time it swung open.

At 10:03, Vincent walked in, and the room seemed to tilt. He was all lean muscle and quiet danger, his leather jacket swapped for a tailored navy blazer that made his blue eyes sharper. His hair was tousled, a streak of silver catching the light, and his smirk sent a shiver down my spine. He spotted me, his gaze locking on mine like a predator’s, and I forgot how to breathe.

“Sloane,” he said, sliding into the chair across from me, his voice low and warm. “You came.”

“You didn’t give me much choice,” I said, trying for snarky but landing on shaky. “How’d you get my number, Vincent? And don’t say ‘a friend at the bar.’ That’s creepy.”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that made my chest ache. “Fair. The bartender owed me a favor. I asked for your name, and he… improvised.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his intensity pinning me in place. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I swallowed, my mouth dry despite the coffee steaming in front of me. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re not the kind of woman who sits around waiting for answers,” he said, his eyes searching mine. “You’re fire, Sloane. And I’m drawn to it.”

My cheeks burned, and I looked away, focusing on the street outside—cabs, pedestrians, normal life. Not this, whatever *this* was. “You sound like you’ve practiced that line,” I said, forcing a laugh. “What do you want, Vincent?”

“You,” he said simply, and my heart stopped. “Not to own you, not to control you. Just… to know you. To see where this goes.”

I stared at him, my mind screaming to run, my body begging to stay. He was too much—too old, too intense, too *forbidden*. Archer’s uncle, for God’s sake. But the way he looked at me, like I was the only thing in the room, made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t in years.

“Vincent, I—” I started, but my phone buzzed, cutting me off. I glanced at it, my stomach dropping. Archer. *I’m outside your place. Where are you? We need to talk.* My hands trembled, and Vincent noticed, his eyes narrowing.

“Trouble?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

“It’s nothing,” I lied, shoving the phone into my pocket. “Just… my ex.”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. “The one who left you at the courthouse?”

I nodded, my throat tight. “Archer. He wants to explain.”

“Archer,” Vincent repeated, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. He leaned back, his fingers drumming on the table. “My nephew’s always been good at explanations. Not so good at follow-through.”

My breath caught. *Nephew.* The word hit like a punch, confirming what I’d half-suspected. Vincent was Archer’s uncle. The room spun, the coffee shop’s warmth turning suffocating. “You’re… you’re his uncle?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“No,” I snapped, my anger flaring. “You didn’t. Why the hell didn’t you say anything last night?”

“I didn’t know who you were until you said your name,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with regret. “By then, I was already in too deep. I couldn’t walk away.”

I pushed my chair back, my hands shaking. “This is insane. You’re his *uncle*. I can’t—” I stopped, my words tangling. I wanted to run, to scream, but his gaze held me, raw and unguarded.

“Sloane, listen,” he said, leaning forward, his voice low and urgent. “I’m not Archer. I don’t play games. I know this is messy, but what I felt last night—what I feel now—it’s real. Tell me you didn’t feel it too.”

I opened my mouth to deny it, but the lie wouldn’t come. I *had* felt it—the spark, the fire, the reckless pull of him. But this was wrong, wasn’t it? Forbidden in every way. Before I could answer, the door chimed, and I froze. Archer stood there, his sandy blond hair disheveled, his green eyes wild with desperation. He spotted me, then Vincent, and his face darkened.

“Sloane,” he called, striding toward us, ignoring the curious glances from other patrons. “What the hell is this?”

My heart pounded, trapped between Vincent’s intensity and Archer’s fury. “Archer, what are you doing here?” I stood, my voice sharper than I meant. “How did you even know I was here?”

“I tracked your phone,” he said, unapologetic, his eyes flicking to Vincent. “And you’re with *him*? My uncle? Are you kidding me?”

“Watch your tone, Archer,” Vincent said, standing slowly, his voice low and dangerous. He towered over Archer, his presence a quiet storm. “She doesn’t owe you anything.”

Archer laughed, bitter and sharp. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. What, you think you can swoop in and play hero? She’s my fiancée, Vincent.”

“Was,” I snapped, my voice cutting through the tension. Both men turned to me, and I felt the weight of their stares, the coffee shop shrinking around us. “You lost that right when you left me at the courthouse, Archer. You don’t get to show up now and act like you own me.”

His face crumpled, and for a moment, I saw the boy I’d loved—the one who’d danced with me in the rain, who’d promised me forever. “Sloane, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “Work went to hell. I got a call from investors, and I panicked. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please, just—let me fix this.”

“Fix it?” I laughed, the sound raw and jagged. “You sent a *text*. A rain check, Archer. Six years, and that’s what I’m worth to you?”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching for mine, but I pulled back. “I love you,” he said, his voice desperate. “I’ve always loved you. Don’t throw us away because of one mistake.”

Vincent’s hand brushed my arm, a subtle claim that sent a jolt through me. “She’s not throwing anything away,” he said, his voice calm but edged with steel. “You did that yourself.”

Archer’s eyes flashed, and he took a step toward Vincent, fists clenched. “Stay out of this, old man. This is between me and her.”

“Enough,” I said, my voice shaking but firm. I stepped between them, my heart racing. “Both of you, stop. I’m not some prize to be fought over. I need space, okay? From both of you.”