Page 83 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“File a complaint with the algae.” She hugs me before I can evade her. “Let yourself be given the comfort of an omega whose home was vandalized,” she whispers.

Then she pulls away, carries the samples to her truck, and leaves us standing on the porch.

The house feels aware when the three of us go inside.

Rain falls while Wes locks the door, soft at first and then steady against the roof.

Roman has set takeout containers, plates, and napkins across the kitchen table. Slow blues crackles from the record player in the living room.

The house smells like them. My scent sits beneath theirs, softer than it used to be.

We sit because civilized people apparently eat dinner after vandalism, public accusation, swamp trespassing, and being watched from behind trees.

Wes sets a plate in front of me. “Eat.”

“That sounded like a command.”

“It’s practical.”

“You keep dressing commands in sensible clothing.”

Roman twirls pasta onto a fork and points it at me. “Three bites, little menace. You burned through adrenaline and whatever swamp weirdness happened between you and Wes.”

“Not all the activities were weird. Some were hot,” I mutter.

Roman’s eyes darken.

Wes looks at his plate.

I take one bite to keep either of them from speaking. My stomach turns. I set the fork down. “I can’t.”

Both men look at me.

“My body feels too strange.”

The room quiets around the admission.

Roman lowers his fork. “Your mind knows the threat passed. Your body doesn’t.”

Wes studies me. “What do you need?”

“You.” My answer comes too quickly. “And Roman,” I say.

Roman’s expression softens.

I look between them. “Close. That’s all I know.”

Wes stands. The chair scrapes softly against the old floorboards. “Dance with me.”

“Right now?” I stare at him.

He steps around the table, holding out one hand. “Let me hold you.”

My mouth opens, but nothing useful happens. Instead, I put my hand in his.

He draws me to my feet and leads me into the living room. The floorboards are cool beneath my bare soles. His hand settles at my back, and my palm rests against his chest. We move slowly between the couch and coffee table. My skirt brushes his thighs with each turn, and his cedar folds around me.

“You’re doing good,” he says into my hair.