He tilts his head. “Ma said you were coming to dinner.” A faint huff escapes him, not quite a laugh. “Figured I misheard.”
“I told her I’d be here,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel, so I count that as a win.
“Yeah.” His mouth tugs, the barest hint of a grin. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.” He jerks his chin toward the side yard. “Come on. Walk with me.”
“I remember the way,” I say lightly.
“I know.” He starts down the path without waiting to see if I follow. “Maybe I just wanted the walk.”
That shouldn’t unsettle me. It does anyway.
I fall into step beside him, loose gravel crunching softly under our shoes. Stucco wall on one side. A narrow strip of greenery on the other side, threaded with string lights that cast warm halos over the leaves. Rafe doesn’t talk at first. He just walks—long strides, loose-limbed, arms swinging like he has nowhere else to be and all the time in the world.
I should feel those familiar threads of fear tightening around my heart. This is Rafe Calloway, after all. The brother who gets called when things need to be handled.
Instead, there’s this cold, fizzy snap of excitement in my veins, like carbonation poured straight into my bloodstream.
I tuck that feeling away in the mental box labeledDo Not Examine.
We round the corner, and the backyard opens up around us.
String lights drape overhead in lazy arcs. The pool glows aquamarine, a soft, humming rectangle beyond the wide stone patio. The long outdoor table is set like something torn from a magazine.
“Bellamy, honey!”
Coco’s voice reaches me before she does. It’s bright and warm, impossible to miss. Then she’s there, gliding out through the open kitchen doors, hips swaying, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. Her dark hair is piled into a loose knot, artfully undone, gold hoops flashing when she smiles.
She smells like expensive perfume and wine and roasted garlic when she reaches me.
“You made it,” she croons, cupping my face between her palms before I can dodge. “Let me look at you.”
I let her turn my head left, then right. Her thumbs brush my cheeks. It’s disorienting, being handled like something both precious and assessed.
“This color is gorgeous on you,” she says, flicking a finger against my dress. “Such a beautiful woman you’ve turned into.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Thank you. And thanks for having me. Everything smells amazing.”
“Oh, please.” She waves it off and loops an arm around my shoulders like this is routine. “There was a time I couldn’t pry you away from my boys with a crowbar. It’s about time you came back and let me feed you.”
A breath escapes me—almost a laugh. “Yeah. Well. Life happened.”
“It always does.” Something quick and private flickers through her eyes before she smooths it away. “Come, sit. The boys will be out in a minute. Bishop’s just carving the roast.”
She steers me toward the table, her hand firm and warm between my shoulder blades. She takes the head of the table, of course, then stops me at the chair to her right.
“Here,” she says, patting the back. “You sit next to Bishop. Rafe, honey, you take the other side of her.”
I slide into the chair, the cushion cool against the backs of my thighs. My pulse ticks a little faster as Rafe drops into the seat beside me, stretching one arm along the back of his chair like he’s settling in for entertainment.
Across from me, two empty chairs wait.
I know exactly who they belong to. The sliding door opens again. Gage comes out first, and just seeing him again rattles something loose behind my ribcage.
He’s in a dark henley rolled to his elbows, forearms inked and tan, hair a little damp like he jumped out of the shower too fast. His gaze sweeps the table, lands on me, and his entire face lights up as if it’s instinct, not choice.
“Bell,” he says, and it’s rougher than it should be.
Before I can fully stand, he’s already there. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me into him. A soft breath punches out of me on contact, my hands bracing automatically against his chest.
