He smells like citrus body wash and ocean salt and something warm like sunshine.
For a heartbeat, I forget how to move.
My body remembers him too easily, too completely. Muscle memory is such a traitor.
I force myself to step back, palms skimming over his shirt as I ease away. Heat flares in my cheeks. His smile softens like henotices, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, like he needs somewhere safe to put them.
“Good to see you,” he says, quieter now.
“You too,” I manage.
Cruz slips out behind him, a shadow with footsteps that barely disturb the air. The white cotton of his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders as he leans against the doorframe, one finger absently tracing the silver chain that catches light at his throat. His eyes slide from my face to Gage's hand, still hovering where it had touched my waist, then back to me.
The corner of Cruz’s mouth lifts. “Well, look at that. You’re here again.”
“Shut up,” I say automatically, but my mouth betrays me and twitches.
Then Bishop steps outside. He’s carrying the roasting pan, broad shoulders filling the doorway, forearms flexing under the weight. Charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Dark jeans that fit like they were made for him. Boots that land heavy and grounded with every step. His hair’s slightly mussed, like he dragged a hand through it without thinking.
The evening light cuts across his face, carving sharp lines where there hadn’t been so many.
I’m still staring when his stride hitches. Just barely, but it’s enough.
The serving fork clatters against the rim of the pan.
Behind him, Coco reacts instantly. “Careful, honey.”
“I’m fine,” Bishop mutters, clearing his throat as he adjusts his grip. “Loose tile.”
Coco’s brows arch in faint disbelief. “Mm-hm.” She doesn’t argue. Instead, she says, “I’ll call David in the morning. He promised a lifetime warranty when he did the patio, so if there are any others that need fixing, mark them and he’ll take care of it.”
I don’t take my eyes off Bishop.
He rounds the table now, slow and steady, heat rolling off the pan in fragrant waves. Rosemary. Garlic. Something rich and deep beneath it.
God, all of them look good.
Gage, with his sun-bright warmth. Cruz, with his effortless charm. Rafe, with that predator-casual ease.
But Bishop is something else entirely. Built like a storm you don’t see coming until it’s already on top of you.
He sets the roast down in front of me, close enough that the scent wraps around both of us.
“Bellamy.” His voice is low and rough—gravel dragged over velvet. Like my name is something heavy in his mouth. Something he hasn’t said in years, but remembers exactly how it fits.
My fingers curl tighter around the edge of my chair. “Bishop.” It comes out softer than I mean it to.
Coco claps her hands once. “All right. Everyone sit, sit, sit. Let’s eat.”
I slip back into my seat as Gage slides into the one across from me. Cruz drops into the one beside him, stretching his legs far enough for the toe of his sneaker to nudge mine. Rafe settles comfortably beside me, his body angled like he’s relaxed.
Bishop takes the head at the far end. His gaze flicks to me once, but he doesn’t say anything.
Coco starts passing dishes. Potatoes slick with butter, green beans snapped bright, warm bread wrapped in a cloth napkin. It’s almost painfully normal and domestic.
“It’s been a long time, honey,” Coco says, reaching for the bread basket. “Where have you been? How long are you back in Hollow Beach?”
9
