Page 157 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“Is this the part where your alpha instincts pretend they’re a treatment plan?”

“It is.”

Roman walks in, carrying the thermometer, Dr. Cole’s monitoring sheet, and my grandmother’s map. His hair is still damp, sleeves already pushed up.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You brought paperwork to breakfast.”

“I also brought your favorite pen.” He places the green fountain pen beside my plate, a small thing that still undoes me a little.

I accept the thermometer before he asks. My temperature reads 99.6. Roman records it, then kisses my temple.

“Clear head?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Any scent distortion?”

I turn toward him and breathe in warm spice, the coffee he stole from Wes’s mug, and underneath both of those, simply him. “Cardamom. Cinnamon. Roman.”

His expression softens into something close to relief every time I say his name correctly.

I catch his shirt and pull him close enough to kiss. He cups my cheek while I take my time, tasting coffee on his tongue and feeling my first stir of desire since the fever loosened its hold, gentler this time but mine to choose rather than survive.

When I let him go, Wes is standing beside the table with his arms folded, watching us with an expression he isn’t bothering to hide.

“You have a complaint?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I hold out my hand.

He steps between my knees without hesitation.

“Thank you for breakfast, and for taking care of me.” I draw him down and kiss him too, slower than I mean to, still cataloging how they kept me upright through the worst of it.

Cedar fills my lungs without turning strange. My body recognizes the man before me, but the choice to keep him close belongs to me, fully now, without fear riding underneath it. Wes slides one hand beneath my hair and deepens the kiss until my toes curl against the chair rung.

Roman leans against the counter, watching us with quiet warmth, a look that asks for nothing and still feels like being held. His voice softens. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Wes lifts his mouth from mine, his gaze lingering like he isn’t done looking.

I touch Wes’s face before he can move away. “What happened while I slept?”

His protective focus sharpens. “The outside analyst finished the first access comparison.” He brings the laptop to the table and angles the screen toward me.

The report lists the three entries we identified yesterday: the archive request for my grandmother’s files, the museum transfer that moved a sealed container before the Love Stone disappeared, and the temporary codes used by Rusk at the preservation shed behind Sweetheart Haven Heritage Hall.

A fourth column has been added, terminal origin. Every flagged request came from the same computer inside the museum’s preservation office.

“The shared account hid the person,” I say. “But the terminal narrows the location.”

Roman settles beside me. “The computer requires a building credential after closing hours.”

Wes opens another attachment.

The flagged entries were generated between 9:40 and 11:15 at night. Heritage Hall was closed to visitors. Only staff, board members, preservation officers, and approved volunteers working on Month of Heart displays should have been inside.

The attendance sheet includes nine names. The museum director appears twice, along with Myrtle Vane. Three historical society volunteers signed in for display assembly. Magnolia sent a vendor coordinator. A maintenance contractor worked near the archive climate system.