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Has someone been rummaging in my stuff?
I color-code my clothing—have done for years. It’s all Marie-Kondo’ed within an inch of its life, and I made sure to bring shelf organizers for my stay. They’re honeycomb-shaped, with each little hexagonal section available for a perfectly folded item of clothing. Every single pair of socks and underwear should be folded precisely and slotted in its own little section of my shelf. But some of my underwear is rumpled.
My heart thumps. I whirl on Fallon. “Were you rifling through my underwear?”
He rears back. “What? No!”
I stare at him for a beat, searching. Did he? Would he?
My eyes dart around the room, searching for something—anything. A clue. The window is cracked open, just how we left it earlier, and I cross the room to glance outside. The window is the type that opens two ways: it either swings fully inward, or it can be latched and tilted from the top to let in some air. We tilted it. Outside, I scan the trees, the grass, the underbrush, but I see nothing.
Until I look directly at the ground near our guesthouse. A single black feather rests on the grass just outside our cracked window. A crow feather.
Did—how—what?
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m going crazy. There’s no way a crow rifled through my underwear. Literally no way.
Fallon walks on soft feet to approach me, stopping just inches from my back. When he puts his hands on my shoulders, I flinch. “Talk to me,” he rumbles.
“The bedsheets are mussed.”
Something crosses his eyes. Real worry—maybe even fear. But his face is blank in an instant. “Barely.”
“My underwear was tampered with.”
There’s slight pause, as if Fallon is trying to compose himself. When he speaks, his voice sounds calm, casual. “Is it possible you did that when you got dressed this morning?”
I glance at the closet door, biting my lip. I was frazzled this morning when I woke up wrapped up in Fallon’s arms. Is it possible that I messed up a few items of clothing when I got dressed?
Yeah, it’s possible.
Is it probable?
I’m going with hell no.
But what’s the alternative? A freaking crow?
I’m going insane.
“I need to call the Audubon society. I need to know just how smart crows are, and whether they can squeeze through”—I glance at the window—“two or three inches of space.” I straighten my shoulders, but Fallon doesn’t drop his hands.
A deep, rumbling chuckle sounds as his hands slide down my arms and wrap around my waist. “Jen.” His voice is quiet, his breath ruffling over my neck.
“What?”
“Is it possible you’re deflecting from the real issue?”
I frown. “What’s the real issue?”
“The fact that we made out like two horny teens in your car a few minutes ago, and now we’re back in our private guesthouse with nowhere to be until tomorrow morning?”
I stiffen.
He lets out a long sigh, his arms still wrapped around me—and damn it, I like the feeling of him curled around me like this. The hardness of his muscle. The warmth of his body. The rasp of his beard against my neck, my chin.
“I’m not going to push you to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says quietly.
Of all the reactions I could have to something so thoughtful, so gentle, I have the worst one. I get embarrassed. How humiliating is it that I’ve been on this earth nearly half a century, and the thought of being intimate with a man still fills me with dread? I still feel like I should be alone. I don’t deserve someone as thoughtful and kind as Fallon.
