Page 185 of Menace in Vegas

He opens his mouth like he wants to argue.

I stare him down. “Try me.”

He closes his mouth and exhales. His shoulders sag like I just lifted the weight of the ocean off him.

“All right,” he mutters.

Gram pouts. “Fine.” A mischievous look crosses her face. “But I’m still reading the poetry before dinner.”

86

ALLISON

By 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 isa 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 knowyou’rehere?”

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