Chapter 8 Bellamy
BELLAMY
By the time I pull up outside the Callaway house, my hands are damp on the steering wheel.
The place looks the same and completely different.
The stucco’s been repainted, the landscaping’s more manicured, the gate looks newer, sturdier.
But the shape of it—the bones of it—is exactly the same.
Same low wall around the front yard. Same big palm leaning in like it wants to eavesdrop.
Same view of the street dipping down toward the glittering line of ocean in the distance.
I park at the curb and kill the engine. For a second, I just sit there, listening to it tick as it cools. The night hums around me. Crickets, distant traffic, music drifting from somewhere farther down the block.
My phone sits in the cupholder, screen dark. I tap it awake anyway, just to confirm what I already know.
Location shared with Lola.
A text from her.
If you’re not home by ten, I’m burning this town down.
Below it, a calendar alert set for nine p.m. If I’m dead, call Marty.
She’d rolled her eyes when I programmed it. I laughed. Neither one of us really thought it was funny.
Beckett’s out tonight. Lola too. I made sure of it. If something goes sideways, at least they won’t be here to get caught in the blast radius. They know where everything is—the stashes, the storage units, even the half-empty one in the Midwest that exists more out of paranoia than practicality.
If someone has to answer for that yacht job, it’s going to be me. Not them.
I inhale once, slow and deep. Okay.
Rationally, I know if Coco wanted me dead, she wouldn’t lure me here with roast and dessert. She’d just… send someone. I’m familiar enough with how that world works.
Still, my heart is beating too fast for something as simple as Sunday dinner.
I climb out of the car and smooth my hands down the front of my dress—a soft sundress in a color Lola insisted “made my eyes feral.” I told her that wasn’t a thing. She told me to shut up and hold still while she did my mascara.
The closer I get to the gate, the louder the sounds become: clinking dishes, distant music, Coco’s laugh drifting on the warm night air. The smell of garlic and rosemary and something rich and slow-cooking wraps around me, settling heavy in my chest.
There’s a shape leaning against the brick pillar by the gate.
For a split second, my stupid, traitor heart gives itself away—a hitch, a flutter. Broad shoulders. Relaxed stance. Head tipped down. And my brain does the easy thing, the reckless thing. It fills in the blanks and calls him Gage.
Then he straightens and pushes off the wall, and the details sharpen. He’s taller, leaner in a sharper way. A darker cast to his eyes even in the fading light.
It’s not Gage—it’s Rafe.
He flicks something into the little trash can by the walkway, then hooks his thumb into his pocket, looking at me like he’s weighing what version of me just walked up his driveway.
“Had to see if the rumor was true,” he says, voice rough velvet.
I stop just inside the gate, fingers curling around the metal. “Rumor?”
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 labeled Do 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.
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 he notices, 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?”