“Are we here to sit around or are we going to fucking work?” Bishop asks, though it’s not really a question.
Bellamy's mouth curves up on one side, a dimple winking in her cheek. My thumb twitches against my leg.
“Funny,” she says, sliding past me toward the window. Her fingertips leave trails in the dust on the sill as she leans forward. The glass fogs with her breath, then clears. “Pretty sure you begged Cruz to let you handle recon with us.” She glances back over her shoulder. “Rafe and I would be just fine alone.”
Bishop's jaw flexes once, twice. He yanks the door open, hinges protesting. “Museum. Ten minutes. Let's go.”
The town sells itself like it knows exactly what it is.
Sun-bleached storefronts. A single main drag lined with antique signage and curated decay. A museum, a tasting room, two diners across the street from each other. Everything built to make outsiders feel welcome—and watched.
Bellamy walks a few steps ahead of me, the hem of her sundress catching on the breeze, showing me glimpses of her upper thighs.
I’ve had dreams about those thighs every single night since the pool. wrapped around my legs, my waist, my fucking face.
She’s like a walking dare. Every freckle on her shoulder a breadcrumb. I keep my distance behind her, at first because Bishop wants me to, and then because I like the view. She knows I’m watching. She always does. Every few steps she glances back, pretending to squint at the sun or the street, but her gaze lands on me and sticks for a second longer than necessary.
I wink at her. She rolls her eyes, but that smile never leaves the corner of her mouth.
The museum is an old bank; the vault has been turned into an exhibit. The main room smells of dust and air conditioning, with track lighting that casts yellow circles on faded carpet. A video loops in the corner—some guy in a bolo tie droning about the “golden age of gambling” while three tourists pretend to watch.
Behind glass, casino chips catch the light—different colors from different places, some that don't exist anymore.
I run my finger along the security rope tethering a chip to its display, feeling the coiled tension.
A woman in a vest that's two sizes too large hovers nearby, her eyes following my hands like I might pocket history.
Bellamy moves slower, pausing at each display, fingers hovering over the glass. She bends to read a placard, her hair falling forward. I wonder if she really cares about the chips, or if she’s scanning for something else.
The employee wanders over, vest crinkling. “Do you have any questions?”
Bellamy tilts her head, touching her collarbone. It’s the opening she needs. “So these were all made right here in town?” Her voice lifts at the end, sweet as syrup.
The employee launches into Sableine’s history, the factory that produces the clay composite chips, and the whole process. Bellamy weaves in just the right amount of questions to keep the employee talking, gleaning information with ease. Tourist curiosity with teeth.
It’s a goddamn work of art.
I hover a few paces behind her, smothering my grin behind my hand and pretending to be interested in the display in front of me.
Bishop watches her reflection in the glass more than the display itself.
When we exit twenty minutes later, she squints into the sun, tugging her sunglasses back down.
“Well,” she says, turning to me. “That was almost wholesome.”
“And informative,” I murmur, lacing my fingers with hers and tugging her close to me.
We wander through town, stopping to take pictures of the faded welcome sign. Bellamy's shoulder brushes mine as she leans in to frame the shot, her hair tickling my neck. When she steps away, it's just far enough that our hands could accidentally touch if I let mine swing. Bishop’s constantly scanning rooftops, doorways, parked cars. And somehow, his attention seems to find its way to her constantly.
The tastingroom swallows us in a wall of sound—laughter bouncing off exposed brick, glasses clinking, the tour guide's rehearsed jokes landing harder with each round. Sweat beads at my hairline as bodies press closer in the cramped space. A woman in a floral dress stumbles against her husband, giggling as she rights herself.
Bellamy's shoulder presses into mine as we reach station five of eight. Her cheeks have taken on a rosy flush, and she blinks twice when the guide slides another generous pour in front of her.
“Jesus,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear as she leans in, steadying herself with a hand on my forearm. The glass trembles slightly as she lifts it. “These pours are out of control.”
The amber liquid climbs three-quarters of the way up the glass. I hold it to the light. “That’s almost two fingers.”
She blinks at me, pupils wide and dark against hazy gray irises. My train of thought derails.
