Page 88

88

CONNOR

B y the time I hit the street, Daltyn’s already halfway across it, slicing through a group of tourists like a heat-seeking missile.

Across the way, I spot Peyton standing frozen on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. She’s holding a drink in one hand, the other clutched to her chest like she’s bracing for impact. She’s pale, her fingers trembling so badly coffee sloshes over the lid.

Ten feet behind her stands Landon.

But now, he’s gone.

I search the crowd for any sign of him.

Nothing.

Just strangers milling around, laughing, drinking, completely oblivious to the threat that was right here.

I push through, my eyes scanning every alley and doorway. Even inside a souvenir shop filled with flamingo towels and “Key West Is My Therapy” mugs.

Gone.

Again.

By the time I return, Daltyn is beside Peyton like a goddamn guard dog. Arms crossed. Shoulders squared. His whole posture daring someone to try.

Allie stands next to them, her voice low and soothing.

Gram is sipping sangria out of a to-go cup with a tiny umbrella, side-eyeing Daltyn like she’s already writing him into Volume Four of her poetry series.

Peyton’s voice shakes. “I don’t want to go back to my bungalow alone.”

“You’re not,” I say automatically.

All eyes snap to me.

Gram perks up. “She should come stay with us.”

Daltyn stiffens.

Allie blinks.

Peyton opens her mouth to protest… then closes it again.

“I’ve got extra earplugs,” Gram chirps. “We’ll have a slumber party in the living room. Unless, of course, you’d rather sleep with the brooding goalie in the extra bedroom.” She wiggles her brows. “I won’t judge.”

Daltyn makes a sound that might be a growl.

“Gram, you can’t just?—”

Our phones buzz in unison.

My brows draw together as I read the text aloud.

ALERT: Tropical Storm Watch in Effect.

Seek Shelter Immediately.

I glance at the sky. Angry clouds are already rolling in, wind snapping through the air like a warning.

“Alright,” I mutter. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, we step into the bungalow, drenched from the sudden downpour.

The air is thick with humidity and tension.

Peyton lingers by the door, fidgeting with her sleeve. She hasn’t said much since we left the café.

Daltyn’s watching her like she’s a ghost he never expected to see again.

Allie disappears into the bedroom to grab towels.

Gram flops dramatically onto the couch, peels off her sandals, and pulls out her erotica book like she’s about to lead story time at a swamp-themed strip club.

She flips to her glittery bookmark, eyes twinkling. “Do you like erotic poetry, Peyton?”

“Gram, no.”

Peyton looks horrified.

“No, she doesn’t,” Daltyn growls, like the words physically pain him.

And for a moment, I seriously consider walking back into the storm to escape her madness.