The mystery cyclist never showed up again for the remainder of the day, not even after they brought the horses back, but Rose was constantly on her guard, watching for loiterers or loners or anyone casting a curious eye in her mom’s direction, or Bellamy’s. The latter did draw quite a lot of attention, mostly of the admiring female kind, everyone from college-age girls to middle-aged women checking him out in often not-so-subtle ways. Not that surprising really; his unusual blend of bad boy biker looks and almost wistfully naïve tourist demeanor made him stand out. Made him interesting; a genuine conundrum in a world of petty absolutes.

And to the guy’s credit, he didn’t let the attention go to his head in the slightest, or if he did, he didn’t show it. Instead, he strolled alongside Rose and Blythe with a kind of carefree, amused curiosity, as though it was all a dream and he was the only one who knew it. Nothing bad could happen to him in this dream, therefore everything was inconsequential. Rose knew that if she hadn’t grown so cynical, so paranoid, thanks in no small part to her part-time PI work, she would probably find Bellamy appealing, maybe even charming. She found herself watching his lips as he spoke about his love of riding again.

“A manicured bridle path can’t compete with the wild Devonshire beaches,” he lamented. “I used to spend summers with my cousins at Mere Hall, my uncle’s country estate—he’d bought himself a baronetcy—” He stopped dead, as though he’d said too much, then added, “I mean he was good enough to let us ride his Spanish mares up and down the beach to our hearts’ content. I don’t remember much about my life in England, but I’ll never forget sprinting through the surf in those driving Devonshire winds, feeling like the mares could sprout wings and take off at any moment, like a herd of Pegasus.”

“Ooh, Pegasus—I saw that movie!” Rose butted in, immediately wishing she hadn’t. Listening to Bellamy wax poetic was like traveling back in time somehow, to an era before snark. The way he phrased his words, it wasn’t exactly Vogue speak. “Um, Harryhausen, right?”

“That’s the one,” he replied, a look of awe washed over his face. “Amazing what he did before CGI.”

Now they were talking about something Rose loved. Movies. “I know, right? Kids nowadays take it all for granted, all the computer effects. I think it’s taken the make-believe out of the magic. But Harryhausen, man, he gave those creatures personality. They might be a bit jerky, but you could tell they were actually there, physically. They were real in a sense.”