I tilt my face toward him. “Is that what you do? Go wherever you want?”
His mouth curves into dangerous amusement. “Something like that.”
Gage huffs, lifting his beer and swirling it once before taking a sip. “We’re all property managers.”
I file that away. It’s the kind of answer that sounds intentionally boring. Safe. The kind you give when you don’t want follow-up questions. Except I already know that’s not exactly true.
“What’s that like?” I ask lightly. “Fixing broken AC units and changing the locks?”
“Sometimes,” Gage says. “Sometimes it’s replacing a ceiling because the unit upstairs let a bathtub overflow.”
“We do whatever we have to,” Cruz adds, voice easy, eyes sharp.
It echoes something Coco said to me not five minutes earlier. But coming from Cruz, it lands heavier. Less comforting, more loaded.
I feel the weight of Bishop’s stare, but when I glance up, he’s studying his plate, jaw working like he’s chewing on more than just dinner. The silence at his end of the table has its own gravity.
It’s been years since I sat across from him, and the old tension creeps back. Me always poking, him always pretending not to care. But tonight he’s unreadable. Not angry or cold. Just absent.
I look back at Gage. “I bet you guys stay busy. Seems like half this town’s rentals now.”
Rafe tugs idly on the end of a lock of my hair, just once. “People like to rent, but they don’t like totake careof things.”
Cruz finishes his drink and sets the glass down with a precise clink. “We’ve got connections if you ever need a new place.”
The way he says it makes my shoulders tighten. Is it an offer or a reminder? Fuck, it’s probably some kind of warning.
Gage’s eyes flick to Cruz, then back to me, his jaw ticking. There’s something sharp under the surface there, something unfinished. Definitely a fucking warning.
I smile anyway. “Good to know.”
“And Bishop has a place—” Gage starts.
“No,” Bishop cuts in. It’s not loud, but the finality rings around the table.
Gage stills, his beer halfway to his mouth.
Bishop lifts his gaze to him, expression flat. “Since when do we tell strangers all our business?”
The word lands heavily.
Strangers.
It’s not wrong, but it feels like it should be.
Gage’s knuckles go white around the neck of his bottle. He sets it down carefully without taking a sip. “She’s not a stranger.”
“She’s practically family,” Coco says, reaching for the bread basket like this is settled fact. “And she’s my guest, Bishop.”
A muscle ticks in Bishop’s jaw as he grunts, low and noncommittal, and spears a potato on his fork.
The vibration comes sharp and sudden against the wood.
Bishop’s phone rattles against the wood next to his plate. He flips his phone over and glances at the screen, something hard flickering across his features before it disappears.
“Excuse me, Ma. I need to take this,” he says, already pushing his chair back.
He steps away from the table, just far enough that the words drop into a low rumble I can’t make out. His profile cuts sharp against the glow spilling from the kitchen—hard lines, clipped movements, one hand braced on the back of a chair like he’s anchoring himself.
