I like that part.
You learn a lot about people when there’s nowhere to hide.
Bellamy leans against our rental car, one foot crossed over the other. Her sunglasses sit pushed up into her hair, holding back loose strands that dance in the hot breeze. The hem of her sundress flutters against her thighs. She tilts her face toward the sun and smiles slightly, like she's soaking it in.
She looks like she’s on vacation. Anyone watching would buy it without a second thought.
Which is perfect.
And also a fucking problem.
Maybe.
She slips too easily into whatever role she decides to play.
Bishop glances back at her from the check-in counter, frowning. His eyes meet mine, and he jerks his head.
“C’mon, baby. Bishop needs help.” I push off the hood and hold my hand out toward her.
Her palm slips into mine, and I ignore the urge to snatch her up and run far away.
We stroll inside the only little bed-and-breakfast in Sableine. It’s homey and cottage-cute.
“What’s up, man?”
“They only have one room.”
Bellamy leans her head against my bicep. “We can share for a night, Bishop.”
He drags his gaze to her, intense. “There’s only one bed.”
“Cozy,” I murmur, swallowing my amusement.
Bellamy’s shoulders shimmy against mine, and I imagine her face does not hideheramusement.
“Fine,” Bishop snaps. “I guess we’ll take it.”
Bellamy rises onto her toes, leaning across the worn wooden counter. “We're on a route seven-oh-nine adventure,” she tells the clerk, her voice lifting with practiced excitement. Her fingers slide around my forearm, squeezing slightly as she adds, “To celebrate our engagement.” The diamond-less ring she'd slipped on earlier catches the dusty light.
I glance out the window at the empty main street, the single traffic light swaying in the hot breeze. Cruz's warnings about keeping our cover tight seem ridiculous now. But when Bellamy's thumb traces a small circle against my skin, I find myself hoping the clerk takes his time with the paperwork.
The clerk slides a tarnished brass key across the counter. “Room three.” Bishop's fingers close around it, knuckles whitening slightly.
We trail him down a narrow hallway where the floorboards creak under our weight. The key sticks in the lock, requiring a jiggle before the door swings open with a whine.
My shoulder brushes the doorframe as we file in. Bishop's back stiffens. The mattress sags in the middle, a pale yellow comforter pulled taut across it. A powder-blue recliner crowds the corner, stuffing peeking through a small tear in the armrest. The chest of drawers lists slightly to one side.
“Motherfucker,” Bishop curses under his breath.
Bellamy sits on the edge of the bed, testing its give with a bounce of her weight. The mattress creaks. She looks between us, one eyebrow lifting as her lips quirk sideways. “I've slept in worse.”
“I’m not sharing a bed withyou,” Bishop says, his voice dropping an octave lower than usual.
I watch the muscle in my brother's jaw twitch—once, twice. His eyes never quite land on Bellamy directly, always fixing on a point just past her shoulder or at her hands. Never her face.
My thumb traces the stubble along my jaw as I catalog each micro-expression, filing them away like evidence.
Bellamy stretches her legs out, wiggling her toes in her sandals. “Hope your pride likes lumpy upholstery,” she says, patting the yellowed comforter beside her.
