Page 44 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Heat floods her face. “You heard nothing.”

“I heard an omega who liked being kissed.”

“You’re suddenly very confident.”

“I have evidence.”

She kisses me again to stop the argument. I’m entirely willing to lose that way.

The screen door slams up at the house.

Wes strides down the dock, carrying two paper bags and wearing the expression of a man running on instinct.

Scarlet turns toward him with delight, her hand still wrapped around mine and her mouth pink from kissing. “Our emotional support alpha returns.”

Wes stops three feet away. “You skipped dinner.”

His eyes move to Scarlet at the edge of the dock first, measuring the distance between her and the water and checking her steadiness before he’s consciously registered the rest.

Then he scents her.

Chapter 11

Roman Osprey

His gaze drops to her mouth, then to our joined hands. Heat moves through our bond, carrying Wes’s satisfaction and want strongly enough that I don’t need to guess what he thinks of finding Scarlet beside me, her hand still wrapped around mine.

“What did you bring?” Scarlet asks.

He hands her one of the bags. “Fried mullet. Hush puppies. Slaw.”

Her whole face lights up with pleasure before she catches it.

Wes’s shoulders roll back and settle with satisfaction. He lowers himself beside her on the opposite side, broad shoulders damp from rain. Between us, her body eases almost instantly, one side warmed by my arm and the other by Wes’s thigh. Her scent opens until the dock smells like honey.

We eat from the paper containers while the storm shifts across the swamp. He watches Scarlet steal two of his hush puppies after finishing her own.

I lift my brow in question, wondering if he will say anything.

“I bought extra because I knew she’d steal mine.” Wes looks toward the water as if he didn’t just hand her proof that he’s already learning her.

Her chewing slows. Scarlet’s hand finds his forearm. She doesn’t seem to realize she has reached until her fingers are already resting against him. “Thank you,” she says.

His attention returns to her face. “You’re welcome.”

Thunder rolls closer. The rain thickens from mist to a steady fall, tapping against the dock and the paper containers.

“We should move inside,” I say.

Scarlet doesn’t release Wes as she stands. He gathers the food with his free hand. The three of us make it to the house half wet and laughing, because Scarlet nearly slides on the walkway, blames Wes for owning impractical rainboots, and then insists she had the situation under control while holding both our arms.

Once we’re inside, the storm closes off the rest of the world.

Scarlet sets the leftovers on the kitchen counter. Wes locks the back door out of habit, checks the screen latch, and turns.

The air in the room changes. We’re no longer sitting under open sky with food between us and the swamp giving us places to look that aren’t each other.

Scarlet stands near the table in her strawberry shorts and cropped tank, her hair curling around her face. Her scent is warm enough to make Wes’s pupils widen.