Coco doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. Make yourselves at home. Everyone else does. And it’s good to see you again, Bellamy.”
Then she drifts away toward the tables by the pool, already reclaiming the party as if she had never left. The air feels heavier once she’s gone.
I turn to Bellamy. “You hungry? Thirsty? Want to swim? Or I can show you around?” Christ, I sound like a tour guide. I don’t take it back though. Not when having her here feels this good. Bright. Unsettling. Like popping candy in my veins.
“Yo, Beck!” someone hollers his name from the far side of the patio. Two guys wave him over.
Lola squints. “Who’s that?”
“Just people I know,” Beckett says with a shrug. “From Crescent Point.” His eyes flick to me, sharp and assessing.
I lift my hands. “Relax. It’s a party, man. No one’s gonna do anything.”
His stare stays hard until Bellamy dips her chin and says quietly, “We’re good.”
Only then does he go.
Lola lingers another second, gives Bellamy a look that’s basically a silent dissertation, then says, “Drink. Immediately.” She pivots and disappears toward the bar.
Which leaves the two of us alone. Fucking finally.
I turn toward Bellamy, and she pushes her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, chin angled like she’s daring me to misbehave.
“You look good,” I say before I can stop myself.
She lifts a brow. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” I lean in a little, just enough that she can hear me over the music. “And you showed up. Thought you might bail.”
“Thought about it,” she answers, voice steady but her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “But I don’t like giving you the satisfaction.”
A grin pulls across my mouth. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
Her breath hitches, and she shifts her weight like the ground just tilted beneath her.
“Careful, Calloway,” she murmurs. “People might think you have good intentions.”
I huff a laugh. “Never. I just know a good thing when I see it.”
Her lips twitch, the beginning of a smile she tries to suppress.
And fuck, every part of me lights up at the sight.
6
BELLAMY
Gage shifts a little closer—notcrowding, not touching—but close enough that I feel the heat of him. The quiet gravity he’s always had. Like the air adjusted itself around his presence.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says again.
“I can’t either, to be honest.” I keep my eyes on the pool instead of him.
“Then why are you?”
I shrug, casual on the outside, nowhere near casual inside. “You asked.”
“Is that all?” He huffs a soft laugh, and then his hand lifts, slow and deliberate. The pad of his index finger grazes my jawline, and my skin lights up like it remembers him better than I do.
