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89

CONNOR

G ram sighs dramatically, throwing her arms out like a retired Vegas showgirl. “If the storm kills us, I just want my obituary to say I died the way I lived—braless and surrounded by scandal.”

I freeze mid-step.

Allie stops drying her hair.

Peyton looks like she’s questioning every decision that led her here.

Daltyn doesn’t even hesitate. He turns to Peyton and jerks his head toward the hallway. “You’re sleeping in the extra room. With me.”

Peyton blinks. “I—what?”

He lowers his voice, nodding toward Gram, who’s now digging through her bag like she’s searching for a sacrificial fruit tray.

“You really wanna stay out here alone with her?”

Peyton opens her mouth to argue.

Then Gram pulls out a tube of body glitter and starts humming what sounds like a swampy remix of “Let’s Get It On.”

Peyton mutters, “Point taken,” and collapses on the couch, eyeing Gram like she’s rigged with explosives.

I rub a hand down my face. “We need rules. Gram needs rules.”

“I don’t do rules,” she says, fluffing the couch pillows. “I do vibes and vengeance.”

* * *

The storm hits harder than expected.

Thunder rattles the windows. Rain lashes the roof.

There’s a click… and the lights go out.

My arm is around Allie, who still hates storms. I’m comforting her, but freeze mid-conversation.

“That’s not good,” she whispers, shivering against me.

I fumble for my phone and turn on the flashlight. I head to the kitchen, digging out the emergency candles I stashed under the sink.

Within minutes, the bungalow is filled with soft, flickering light.

Blankets are dragged out while wind howls outside the windows.

Gram suggests using body heat to keep warm “if it comes to that.”

I hear Daltyn pacing in the spare bedroom.

Peyton is silent. She’s probably trying to figure out how to survive a stormy night ten feet from the man she’s been actively avoiding and quietly unraveling over.

Allie nudges me gently, her voice low. “T-Think we’ll be okay?”

I glance toward the door. I know she’s talking about the storm, but there’s another threat we have to deal with.

My jaw tightens. Landon’s still out there. Somewhere.

“Yeah,” I say, wrapping an arm around her. “We’ve got candles, backup batteries, and a feral grandma who probably used to smuggle diamonds in her bra. We’ll survive.”

Hopefully.