“In a henhouse?”
“With honor,” he insists.
“I’ll be sure to have a plaque made and hung on this very coop, and we’ll host an annual memorial egg hunt.”
He grunts again, shifting his weight. “Careful.Mocking a helpless man is bad luck.”
I scoff. “Says the one percenter who spies on people for a living and is now stuck in a doorway.”
“Alright, new plan. You pull, I push.”
“Perfect.” I set the basket down and grab his outstretched hand.
We tug. We twist. We accomplish absolutely nothing.
“I think the hens are judging you,” I say between laughs.
“They’ve turned,” he deadpans. “I can feel it. Any minute now, they’re going to start pecking for blood.”
I yank harder. “Stop talking and wiggle!”
“I am wiggling!” he shouts, but he’s laughing now too—really laughing. The sound of it does something to me. Loosens a screw that’s been wound tight since the moment I landed back in South Carolina.
Finally, with a grunt and one last tug, he pops free, stumbling into the sunlight with a dramatic gasp for air like he just escaped the underworld.
He brushes himself off with wounded pride. “That was graceful.”
“Graceful in the way a baby giraffe is graceful, sure.”
He places a hand over his heart and bows deeply. “Thank you, Lady Gemma. You’ve saved me from a poultry-related demise. I am, henceforth, your humble servant.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t film that for the village TikTok.”
His grins softens, warmer, less performative. His eyes find mine. The air between us changes, tightening with a new kind of awareness. He steps closer and reaches out, plucking a feather from my shoulder likeit’s a thread of silk.
“You’re shedding.”
And just like that, my laughter stumbles. My chest tightens. Because it’s not just a feather. It’s the way he’s looking at me. The way his touch lingers. The way my pulse trips and my knees soften.
My chuckle is thinner now. Tense at the edges. “If I start clucking, take me out back and put me down.”
“I don’t do mercy killings.” His lips twitch. “But I’d absolutely build you a luxury coop.”
“Oh good,” I mutter. “A girl can never have too much real estate.”
I pick up the basket again, but he takes it from me and hooks it over his forearm.
We head back toward the castle in silence, the waterfall’s roar rising to greet us. I sneak a glance at him. Mist clings to the golden strands of his hair, making him look like he belongs in a painting or on the cover of one of the very smutty books piled on my nightstand.
He’s quiet now, thoughtful.
Which is almost worse than the flirting.
When he’s not performing, not teasing or smirking or turning everything into a punchline…when he’s just walking beside me like this—warm and solid and not being a total ass—it’s easy to forget all the reasons I’ve kept my walls up.
As we round the last bend, the castle’s towering silhouette slices into the sky. A flicker of movement in one of the high windows catches my eye—just a shift of shadow, maybe, but enough to make me pause. I pause and glance over to see if Alder noticed.
He has. His stride falters, sharp blue eyes narrowingas they lock on the same window. He stops suddenly, tense and calculating. With an exhale, he turns to me and thrusts the egg basket into my arms.
