Page 126 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“I have never lifted anything heroically.”

His laugh follows Wes through the front door.

I remain beside the SUV for a moment, listening to the cicadas and the faint movements of the men inside my house. Their presence has settled into the space as though it belongs there.

That thought stirs a quiet, uncertain warmth.

I enter through the kitchen and head to my room to change out of the clothes I wore to Honey’s. The green dress I choose buttons down the front and skims my thighs when I walk. It is softer than my usual armor, a decision I don’t question too closely.

The fabric shifts against my skin as I move, a subtle reminder I can’t quite ignore. A low pulse of heat gathers beneath my stomach. I stop with my hand on the bedroom door and wait for it to fade, breathing through the slow rise and fall.

It recedes gradually, leaving my skin warmer and my senses sharpened around the cedar caught in the hallway.

The sensation lingers. Fear tightens low in my chest while desire answers just as forcefully beneath it, and I don’t know which one I’m supposed to trust.

The attic door stands open when I reach the back hall, light spilling down the narrow staircase. I climb halfway before stopping.

The attic has never looked this welcoming. The overhead bulb remains dark. Two lamps glow from opposite corners, their light soft against the sloped ceiling. Wes has opened the small round window above the east wall and secured the warped frame, so it no longer shudders in its track. Roman has cleared the long worktable beneath it and covered the scarred surface with clean cotton.

Gloves, pencils, glassine envelopes, and trays wait in orderly rows. A clean stool sits at the center of the table. Beside it, a narrow vase holds scarlet sage.

Beyond the open window, the sky has deepened to indigo. The first stars are appearing above the greenhouse roof.

I grip the railing.

They didn’t merely make the room usable. Wes noticed which window refused to open, and Roman brought up flowers from my kitchen. Together, they turned the place where I stored unfinished grief into a room prepared for me. This is what being courted by them looks like. Wes makes the room safe. Roman makes it beautiful. Both pay attention to what I need before I find the language to ask.

Wes waits at the top of the stairs with one hand braced against the frame. Roman stands behind him, watching my face.

“Did we change the space too much?” Wes asks.

I look at the flowers, waiting trays, and stars framed by the repaired window.

“No.” The word comes out softer than I intend.

Wes offers his hand. I take it. He brings my knuckles to his mouth, his kiss warm and unhurried.

Roman passes behind me and presses his lips to the back of my shoulder. “Where do we begin?”

I turn toward the boxes. My grandmother used three systems at once and trusted none of them. Dates appear when she remembered. Locations are marked by weather, blooming seasons, or complaints about tourists. One container bears the label Flood Year, although Sweetheart Haven has endured enough floods to make that nearly useless.

I start with the boxes moved from her bedroom closet after the funeral.

Wes carries them to the table one at a time. Roman keeps an inventory as I open each container. His handwriting is slanted, elegant, and far too attractive for a list containing beetle casings.

“You write like a man who sends love letters from overseas,” I tell him.

He glances at the page. “My current letter begins Dearest Scarlet, today we discovered mildew in the attic.”

“Passion survives.”

“Against terrible odds.”

Wes’s phone rings while I lift wax paper from a stack of pressed leaves. He answers near the stairs, his voice shifting into the restrained cadence he uses for official calls. “Osprey.”

Roman continues logging while I listen around the edges.

The rental company has confirmed that C. Rusk used a temporary festival-services account. The identification on file may be false. The address leads to a storage and repair yard off Old County Nine, where several bays are leased month to month.