Page 71

71

ALLISON

S omething’s off with Connor.

He keeps scanning every shadow, every alley, every street vendor like they might suddenly lunge at us with a machete and a cursed souvenir.

He’s trying to play it cool, but his jaw’s too tight and his shoulders are too squared. His grip on my hand keeps flexing like he’s resisting the urge to throw someone across a fruit cart.

He hasn’t let me out of his sight since we left the beach.

Which would normally be… hot. Protective. Sexy, even.

But this is different.

I glance at him for the third time in two minutes.

He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at everything but me.

When we reach the bungalow, he unlocks the door with one hand while the other stays planted on the small of my back like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

The moment we step inside, he pulls out his phone and starts typing something without a word.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Spill. What’s going on?”

No response. Just more tapping on his phone.

“Connor.”

Still nothing.

I cross my arms. “If this is about Peyton, just tell me. Did something happen? Did you see her again?”

He finally looks up—but his expression is unreadable. Controlled. Guarded.

“We’ll talk later,” he says. “I just need to check something first.”

My stomach twists.

He’s keeping something from me.

And not in a surprise-cake-and-champagne kind of way.

More like “danger is creeping up and I don’t want you to panic” kind of way.

I open my mouth to push because I deserve to know. I need to know what he’s protecting me from.

The front door slams open, ricocheting off the wall like it’s possessed.

Gram storms in, windblown and sun-kissed, waving a small object in the air like it’s the goddamn Holy Grail. “I FOUND HIS TOOTH!”

Connor groans and drops his head into his hands.

I blink. “What—whose tooth?”

“Captain Jimmy’s,” she says proudly. “He popped it out showing me how he used to open beer bottles back in ’78. Told me I could keep it. Said it was the first thing he ever lost that he didn’t want back.”

She beams. “Romantic, right?”

“Gram…” I say, slowly. “Did you just bring someone’s tooth into our bungalow?”

She drops it into a shot glass like it’s a perfectly normal souvenir. Clink.

“I’m thinking of turning it into a pendant,” she adds casually.

Connor lifts his head, eyes full of rage and trauma. “You’re not putting a man’s front tooth around your neck.”

Gram winks. “Oh, honey. If all goes well tonight, I might be wearing a whole necklace by morning.”

I choke. “I—Gram—please?—”

Connor’s already on his feet, muttering something about crime scenes and cursed jewelry as he walks into the other room, tension rolling off him in waves.

He’s hiding something.

And for the first time since this ridiculous, chaotic honeymoon began… I’m scared whatever it is won’t end in a punchline.