Page 35 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Wes’s mouth is too close, and mine parts on a breath I don’t mean to take. His brown eyes drop, just once, and the swamp does an incredibly rude thing by narrowing to the line of his mouth.

Then my lips brush his. Barely. Accidentally. It’s enough to light me on fire. Wes goes still in that dangerous alpha way that says every instinct in him has noticed, and none of them are behaving. His hand tightens at my waist. For one suspended breath, neither of us pulls away.

His cedar scent deepens around me, and my omega answers before pride can interfere. Heat unfurls low in my belly. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, holding him instead of creating distance.

His gaze lifts to mine, asking a question he doesn’t put into words.

I should release him. Instead, I tilt my face the smallest amount.

He closes the last fraction of space.

The second touch of his mouth isn’t an accident. It’s a warm, cautious kiss, careful enough to make the restraint behind it unmistakable. That contained power makes me grip him tighter as I open my lips to let his tongue dart against mine.

Wes releases me by slow degrees, like it’s a decision he has to make more than once. His forehead nearly touches mine before he remembers where we are.

Behind us, Roman says far too softly, “That looked educational.”

I drag in air, which is a mistake because Wes is everywhere. “The swamp attempted murder.”

“The swamp missed,” Wes says, his voice rough around the edges.

Roman steps close enough for his hand to settle briefly between my shoulder blades. “You all right?” he asks.

My body softens between them with humiliating ease. “I’ve lost a boot and several layers of emotional stability.”

“That’s not a no,” Roman says.

I look at him.

Warm amusement lights his hazel eyes, but beneath it sits the same attraction I felt from him in the bakery. He’s open, interested, and clearly comfortable with what just happened between Wes and me. The recognition lands low and hot enough that I have to look away.

Wes keeps one hand at my waist until I’m steady. “Stay there.”

“That sounded bossy.”

“It was meant to.”

He steps into the shallower edge of the mud, grips the top of my abandoned boot, and pulls it free with a sucking sound that would be offensive in any context. Roman takes the boot from him and holds it open while Wes steadies me by the hip. Between them, they get my foot back inside without either man acting as though helping me is an inconvenience.

I purr. The sound is low enough that the swamp nearly covers it. Nearly.

Wes’s hand stills at my waist.

Roman looks up from my boot.

Heat floods my face. “No one heard that.”

Roman’s mouth curves. “Of course not.”

Wes’s thumb moves once against my side before he lets me step away.

I turn away before either of them can see how badly I want the contact back.

While trying to look everywhere but at Wes, I notice a patch where someone has been harvesting flowers. “There,” I say, pointing.

Wes appears beside me.

Footprints press deep into the mud near the thinned lilies, too large to belong to me and recent enough that the edges haven’t fully softened.