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We eat sitting on the flat rock, letting our feet dangle in the water. I can’t remember the last time a simple sandwich tasted this good. I’m glad he packed extras, because I down two in a matter of minutes, along with an apple and three cookies.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask him.
Bishop glances at the remains of our lunch. “This wasn’t exactly cooking. ”
“You know what I mean. You make dinner more often than I do. ” Boys don’t usually cook, not anymore. It’s the wife’s job to get food on the table. Not a law or anything, but an unspoken rule, just like with the laundry. But Bishop not only cooks without complaint, he’s good at it. His food always tastes better than mine.
“We had a maid when I was growing up. Charlotte. She used to let me sit with her in the kitchen while she cooked, and I guess I learned by osmosis. She always smelled like cookie dough. ” He smiles at the memory. “I spent most of my time with her. ”
As opposed to his mom, I imagine. I can’t picture Erin Lattimer as the cookie-baking type. I stretch out on my stomach on the rock and rest my head on my folded arms. “I’m thinking that nap I mentioned earlier might be in order,” I mumble against my skin. The heat of the sun is like a warm blanket on my back, the only sound the slight gurgle of the water, the drone of bees flitting among the flowers along the bank, lulling me to sleep.
“Go for it. ” Bishop lies down on his back next to me, one arm bent behind his head.
I fall asleep almost instantly and wake, disoriented, to his hand on my back, resting right between my shoulder blades. The outline of it burns into my skin. “Ivy,” he whispers. “Wake up. ”
I open my eyes by degrees, my limbs heavy and sleep-drunk. “How long was I out?” I ask, my voice husky.
“A while. Long enough that you’re starting to turn a little pink. ”
Bishop is still lying next to me, but he’s turned on his side, his head propped up on his hand. I have no idea how long he’s been watching me sleep. We’re close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his cheeks, a single dark freckle nestled on the edge of his cheekbone. We look at each other without speaking, the silence between us stretching on and on, as thick and cloying as the humid summer air. Bishop moves his hand from my back, his fingers trailing across my skin, and I shiver, goose bumps breaking out along my arms and neck. I have to struggle for air, my heart and lungs seizing up like they’re being squeezed in a vise. He lifts a lock of my damp hair, lets it slide through his fingers. He reaches for it again, curling it around his fingers.
“Thank you for today,” I whisper. The movement of his hand in my hair is hypnotic, the unexpected warmth in his eyes as drugging as the sun on my back.
“You’re welcome,” he says, voice low.
This is exactly what Callie warned me about, letting my guard down and a Lattimer worming his way under my defenses. But she told me to play nice, too. Act like a content wife so he won’t suspect I’m actually something much more lethal. Maybe with some other boy, some boy without thoughtful green eyes and a calmness at his core, performing those two opposing actions would be easy.
But not with Bishop. I don’t know how to let him touch me without welcoming the heat of his hand.
My father is not a fan of surprises, so I know I’ve done something either very good or very bad when I see him coming toward me on the sidewalk, Callie trailing in his wake. I stop dead, my messenger bag slamming into my hip, and wait for him to approach. I haven’t seen him since the wedding, and if anyone is watching, they might find my reaction strange, so I stretch a smile across my face. His presence is a relief, but it’s a burden, too. I’ve missed him, but I don’t want to be reminded of what he expects me to do.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, when he’s a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a father visit his favorite daughter?”
Callie socks him on the arm and flashes a grin. “Hey, standing right here. ”
My father smiles at us both, and I recognize this whole strained interaction as a performance, put on for the benefit of any curious eyes and ears. It makes me sad that we have to pretend to be comfortable with each other.
I allow myself to be folded into a hug, a quick kiss pressed against my cheek. “We’ll walk you home,” my dad says.
“Okay. ”
I lead the way, the two of them walking on either side of me, the same way they did the day of the wedding. Boxing me in.
“We got your message,” Callie says, once we’re past the semi-crowded streets near the courthouse and on an empty sidewalk.
My father puts his arm around my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Good work, Ivy. ” He withdraws his arm. “Where are they exactly?”
“In a room in the basement of the courthouse. There’s a keypad on the door and inside the room there’s a safe. ”
“How many?”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t get a close look. But I’d guess several hundred. Different types. Handguns, shotguns, rifles. ”
“We’re going to need the codes,” Callie says. “Knowing where the guns are doesn’t do us any good without those. ”
“They don’t leave them lying around,” I snap, irritated for no good reason. I knew when I found the room that the next step would be finding the codes; it’s not a surprise.
