My gaze snags on the hard line of Gage’s jaw, the muscle ticking like he’s biting back a dozen things he wants to say.
How curious that six years can feel like a lifetime and somehow like no time at all.
Lola appears then, like the angel she is, slowing as she takes in the scene. Her brows lift as she reads the tension in the airwith brutal accuracy. Her gaze lands on me, one brow lifting.You good?
I give a tiny tilt of my head toward the side gate.Let’s go.
She dips her chin.Got it.
“Ready to head out?” she asks aloud, bright and breezy. “We have that thing.”
“Yeah,” I exhale, stepping fully clear of Cruz’s legs. Gage’s fingers trail off my wrist as he lets go, dragging over sensitive skin. “I just need to grab Beck.”
We all glance across the patio where Beckett—my menace of a brother—is half-pinned by a girl in cutoffs while three guys chat with him over tacos.
Lola huffs. “I’ll get him. Meet you out front.”
I nod.
“I’ll walk you out,” Gage says immediately.
“It’s fine.” I wave a hand, already backing away. “I know the way.”
Cruz comes to stand beside him, amusement curling at his mouth, something sharp and unreadable glinting in his eyes like he’s cataloging every second of this.
Gage dips his head, then follows anyway, his hand grazing the small of my back as we move toward the gate. Barely a touch. More suggestion than contact.
It still short-circuits my breath.
We’re steps from the gate when Coco appears out of nowhere, gliding toward us with a drink in one hand and a soft, knowing smile.
“Leaving already, honey?”
I turn, schooling my expression. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Calloway.”
“Oh, Bellamy. You know to call me Coco.” She waves that off and steps in, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. Her fingers linger there, warm and familiar and deeply confusing.“Look at you. All grown up. I still remember when you were all elbows and knees and couldn’t fill out a swimsuit to save your life.”
I blink, caught somewhere between embarrassment and a strange, aching warmth.
Her hand lingers at my cheek. “You were at my table every Sunday back then. Why don’t you come again this weekend? I’ll make a roast. And I know the rest of my boys would love to see you.”
The offer settles in my chest—unnerving in its softness.
Maybe this is what maternal gestures are supposed to feel like.
Not that I would know.
I should say no. But refusing would only draw attention. And some reckless, strategic part of me decides it’s better to step into the fire where I can see it than pretend it isn’t already spreading.
“I—yeah,” I say, steadying my voice. “That sounds nice. Thank you.”
Coco beams. “Wonderful.”
Whatever goodbye Gage might’ve offered dissolves in her presence. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then lets the moment slip away.
I step through the gate, the weight of their attention clinging to my back long after I’m gone.
7
