That gets a laugh. Cruz first, then Gage. Even Bishop’s mouth twitches at the corner.
Coco beams at all of us like we’re performing a play she wrote.
I chew a bite of roast and let the rhythm wash over me—the clatter of silverware, overlapping voices, the string lights swaying overhead.
It’s disorienting how easy it is to fall back into this seat, this table, this family-shaped orbit.
It almost feels normal.
If I overlook that two of them know I hit the yacht before they could. If I ignore the way Bishop keeps studying me like I’m a problem he hasn’t solved yet. If I pretend my nerves aren’t buzzing—anchored and lit in a way I haven’t felt in six years.
Almost as if no time has passed. And that’s the problem.
The ease of it jolts something awake in me—sharp, corrective. Like my body remembering why I’m actually here. If this isn’t an ambush, then fine. I’ll take Lola’s advice and do my own digging.
Rip the band-aid off.
I clear my throat. “What about you guys?” I ask, lifting my gaze. “You all still living here? At the house?”
The words land with all the subtlety of a dropped plate. I wince internally.
Stellar recon work, Bell.
Cruz leans back in his chair and drapes an arm over the back of Gage’s, like he owns the entire universe. “Some of the time.”
“Most of the time,” Coco corrects, pointing her fork at him. “All my boys have a bedroom here. Always will. I didn’t raise them just to have them disappear on me.”
Rafe smirks. “She’d show up with a casserole and a crowbar if we tried.”
“You’re not wrong,” Coco says calmly, taking a sip of wine.
Gage shakes his head, amused. “I’ve got a place on Orchard Street.”
My eyebrows lift before I can stop them. Orchard Street runs right along the water. Beckett found a studio at the far end when we were looking. It was tiny, overpriced, and somehow still damp. Not even the ocean couldn’t convince me it was worth the rent.
“So,” Rafe adds casually, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “I’ve got a house on Shoreline. Quiet stretch at the end. Fewer tourists. More privacy.”
Of course he does. Because the only place more expensive than Orchard Street is Shoreline.
“And Cruz still lives here,” Bishop says. It’s the first thing he’s said since my name when he sat down.
My attention snaps to him, then to Cruz, whose eyes are already on me.
He lifts one shoulder in a half-assed shrug and bites the end off a carrot. “I like it here.”
“And I like having you here, honey,” Coco says, reaching over to pat his hand.
Bishop doesn’t add anything else. Doesn’t say wherehelives. The omission hums louder than any answer, and I file it away.
Gage tilts his head toward me. “What about you? Where’s your place?”
“If you want to come over, Gage, you only have to ask.” I lean back with a grin I don’t fully feel.
Rafe’s forearm presses lightly against the back of my neck, an accident, probably. Still, I jerk forward on instinct, pulse flaring sharp and fast. His fingers catch briefly on the ends of my hair, a gentle tug as he withdraws.
A prickle of awareness skates down my spine. I force myself to breathe through it, to settle back into my chair like nothing just happened. Like my body didn’t light up at the smallest contact. I roll my shoulders once, deliberately casual.
“Freelance design sounds flexible. Job like that, you can go wherever you want,” Rafe says.
