The next morning came too soon. Sunlight filtered through the guesthouse windows, illuminating the evidence of their nonstop passion—rumpled sheets, scattered clothes, faint berry stains on the kitchen counter. Stiles woke first, sore in every possible way, but with a deep, satisfied ache that made her smile. Derek stirred beside her, pulling her close for one last lazy kiss before reality intruded.

“We have to go home today, baby,” he murmured against her lips, his hand stroking her bare hip. “Lydia will start asking questions if we stay longer.”