The bathroom is enormous and boasts a rainfall shower. I stand under water that’s almost too hot and let it work mymuscles, yesterday’s extraordinary afternoon, and fifteen hours of deep unconsciousness. By the time I’m out and standing in front of the steam-clouded mirror, wiping it clear with one hand to look at myself—damp-haired, bare-faced, and wearing his tee that hits mid-thigh—I tell my reflection with complete seriousness, “This is completely normal.”
I end up in the kitchen, drinking most of the water in a bottle while standing at the open fridge because my body is urgently demanding it. I load a plate with leftover salmon, fruit, and the good cheddar and crackers from the pantry, then wander the house barefoot, eating, because apparently I’m hungry enough to graze like a mildly feral heiress.
“Hello?” I call out around a mouthful of cheddar. “Any giant Alpha men lurking in expensive corners of this house?”
Nothing.
I pause by the hallway and listen.
“North? Ace? Luca?”
Still nothing.
The house stays quiet around me, and after a second, I figure I must actually be alone. The French doors are straight ahead, and beyond them the beach, so I push them open to go looking.
Something small and fast shoots through the gap between my ankles, into the house, and keeps going.
I squeal and spin around so hard I nearly throw my food.
A rooster is currently in the living room, seemingly conducting a full inspection. Thin, the way all the wild chickens on this island are, rust-red feathers, white patch at his throat, bright orange legs, and absolutely no respect for private property. He walks around a slow, deliberate circle with his head high, like he’s been invited to assess the place before making an offer. He spots the dropped piece of salmon on the floor, studies it with one beady eye, and then eats it.
“Not for you,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
He keeps walking.
I set my plate down on the table, spread my arms wide, and try for authority. “Out. You came in that way; you go back out that way.”
He changes direction immediately.
I go left. He cuts right.
I go right. He cuts left.
Gasping, I try to come at him from behind, but he reads that move before I’ve even committed to it and shoots under the coffee table, which I cannot do because I am, tragically, not a rooster. He reappears on the other side while I’m still trying to get around the furniture without humiliating myself further.
He heads for the couch.
“Do not?—”
He gets on the couch, scratching at it.
“Hey, you’d better stop that.” I snatch a cushion and wave it at him. “Absolutely not. That is not your couch. You’re a beach bird and don’t need upholstery.”
He hops sideways along the cushions, then steps onto the armrest, and then onto the coffee table, where he stands with his chest puffed out before releasing a crowing sound like he’s claiming the place.
“Fine,” I state, pushing my hair back. “You want the table, have it, but you’re leaving this house. I already temporarily live here with three very large Alpha men. I don’t need a fourth cock in the house?—”
“Another cock?” Luca’s voice streams into the room, and I glance up to find the three of them entering through the French doors in surf shorts, towels around their necks, hair still damp. They stop dead.
North is already chuckling as he stares at the rooster, Ace grinning too happily, while Luca is shaking his head.
The rooster ruffles its feathers as if he’s been formally introduced.
“He broke in, ate some salmon, ignored all instructions, and has now claimed the living room.”
Ace is already losing it, laughing. “You were arguing with him?”
Luca’s mouth twitches. “How’s that working out for you?”
