Page 86

86

ALLISON

B y some miracle, or maybe just by sheer force of will, I manage to talk everyone into leaving the bungalow for dinner.

Connor protests.

Daltyn looks like he wants to melt into the floor.

But I point out we need food, fresh air, and at least one hour where we’re not covered in tension, blood, or—I shoot a warning look at Gram—glitter.

Gram claps like I just announced another trip to Vegas. “Ooooh! We’ll celebrate Daltyn joining our little love cult. I’ll go freshen up!”

That should’ve been our warning.

When she disappears into her bungalow, no one thinks to ask what exactly she’s freshening up.

Not even me.

Mistake number one.

* * *

The restaurant is a small Cuban spot tucked near the marina. String lights dangle from the ceiling. A guitarist strums something vaguely romantic.

For five glorious minutes, it almost feels... normal.

That’s mistake number two.

We’re seated in a quiet corner, Gram at one end of the table like the godmother of unfiltered nonsense. She’s sipping sangria and eyeing Daltyn like he’s her next emotional rescue project.

Connor is on edge, scanning exits like he expects Landon to crawl out of a breadbasket.

Daltyn hasn’t touched his menu.

I lean forward. “So… where’s Peyton?”

His gaze sharpens. “Why?”

“Because this whole thing clearly revolves around her, and if I have to suffer through this stalker-honeymoon-from-hell, I’d like to know where the girl you’re clearly obsessed with is.”

He blinks. “I’m not?—”

“Daltyn,” I warn.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “She’s... in Key West.”

“We know that.” My tone softens. “Does she know you’re here?”

He doesn’t answer.

Connor leans forward, voice low and sharp. “You’ve been watching her without her knowing?”

“I was keeping an eye out. After Vegas, I couldn’t just leave her alone. I’ve kept my distance?—”

“You’ve been spying on her,” I cut in.

He winces. “Not spying. Just… monitoring.”

Connor’s jaw ticks. “Like a stalker.”

“I was trying to protect her!”

“She doesn’t know that,” I snap.

“You’re a fine one to talk. Look at all the shit you did with Allie. You even stayed at the B&B?—”

Connor’s look cuts him off. His face is red from rage, and the vein throbbing in his forehead looks like it’s about to explode.

The air turns thick and heavy.

And then Gram shatters it like a drunk wrecking ball.

She reaches into her oversized bag, pulls out a thin, well-worn paperback, and settles her readers on the bridge of her nose.

“What the hell is that?” Connor asks, staring like the book might bite him.

“It’s a poetry book. ‘Lust on the Bayou,’” she announces proudly. “Volume three. I thought it might ease some tension.”

“No,” Connor snaps.

Gram clears her throat. “His gator-sized hunger left her beignets trembling?—”

“No,” Connor says louder, but she’s already in full performance mode.

“She moaned as his swampy hands tangled in her?—”

Daltyn slams his menu on the table. “I’d like to eat. Please stop.”

“—untamed humidity, whispering filthy verses as he?—”

“Gram,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose, “for the love of all things holy, put it away.”

“Can’t. I bookmarked the next scene. It’s the emotional climax.”

Connor groans.

Daltyn looks like he’s astral projecting.

And I just sit there, laughing and crying, because this is our life now.

One long nightmare wrapped in a poem narrated by Gram.