Page 50 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

For now, Scarlet is warm between us, her scent soft and satisfied, her purr moving through the room like the house has finally learned a new language.

I don’t know what will become of the three of us. I only know none of us seems ready for the moment to end.

Chapter 12

Scarlet Sage

The empty hush puppy tray is still sitting in my sink the next morning. I stare at it, trying very hard not to examine the evidence of them, while coffee drips slow and dark into the pot beside me.

Wes’s jacket hangs over the back of one of my kitchen chairs. Dark canvas, heavy with the scents of rainwater, cedar, and whatever soap he uses that makes my omega want to purr while making catastrophically bad decisions.

The quilt from the couch has joined my collection. I carried the blanket into the kitchen without noticing sometime after dawn, wrapped it around my shoulders, and only realized what I had done when Wes’s scent rose from the fabric. Roman’s spice clings beneath it. So does the memory of his mouth against mine, Wes’s hands between my thighs, and the absurd number of times they made me come before I lost the ability to form respectable opinions. My body feels tender in places I’ve spent years pretending don’t require attention.

The most alarming part is that neither man treated what happened like an accident.

Cicadas scream near the marsh while my ancient box fan rattles against the kitchen floor, pretending to be useful against the swamp heat.

A truck door slams. My pulse gives one hard kick before I can stop it.

It’s only slightly humiliating how quickly I started anticipating them.

On my way to the door, a flash of dark purple catches my eye beneath the arm of the couch. One of Mrs. Delaney’s crocheted scarves is wedged between the cushion and the wood, the first one Honey bought me and the one I haven’t been able to find in nearly two years. I touch the soft yarn once, then leave it where it is. I have no explanation for how it got there, and this morning I’m not looking for one.

I step onto the porch just as Wes rounds the hood of his truck. He’s in a gray T-shirt today, with sunglasses hooked into the collar and his hair still damp at the temples.

Roman climbs out beside him, carrying a cardboard drink tray, and grins when he spots me wrapped in the quilt. “You look thoughtful,” he says.

“I was considering throwing both of you back into the swamp.”

“Affectionately?”

“Violently.”

“That’s my girl.”

The words stop all three of us.

Roman’s smile softens. He climbs the steps and stops in front of me. “Too much?” he asks.

The easy way he always checks in with honest curiosity loosens the pressure in my chest. “No,” I admit. “Just unexpected.”

“Good unexpected?”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t become greedy before breakfast.”

He laughs, cups my cheek, and waits until I lean forward first. His kiss is soft and brief, sweetened by coffee. It’s nothing like the hungry way he kissed me last night, but my body remembers anyway. Warmth stirs low in my belly, followed by a softer satisfaction when his thumb brushes my cheek.

When he steps aside, Wes is watching me. His attention moves over my face, the quilt, and the careful way I’m standing. “Morning,” he says.

That simple word should not be so devastating. It lands low and warm enough that my legs involuntary squeeze to force pressure on my clit.

“Morning.” I’m pretending that wasn’t a squeak.

He reaches the top step but doesn’t crowd me. “You sore?”

Heat climbs straight into my face.

Roman becomes fascinated by the labels on the coffee cups.