“Excuse me?” My cheeks flush.

“Work on this website. You brought your computer, right?”

Oh. I exhale slowly. “Right.”

“Good, ’cause once this pill kicks in, I’ll be lights out for the night.”

Setting the picture of my dad and Wren back on the shelf, I retrieve my laptop from the kitchen and settle myself onto the other end of the couch.

Acutely aware of Jonah’s gaze on me the entire time.

“You said 1964, right? Jonah?”

“Hmm . . .” His eyes are shut and his broad chest is rising and falling at a slow rhythm.

“Jonah?” I call out softly.

He doesn’t stir again.

“Well, I guess that’s that.” Twenty minutes of help is better than nothing. Though, I couldn’t actually work on the website because, along with the lack of TV, Jonah doesn’t have internet.

What normal thirty-one-year-old male doesn’t have a television and internet access in his house?

I shut my laptop and then simply stare at his relaxed face for a moment, chewing my lip in thought. I already knew he wasn’t like any other guy I’ve ever met. And what would possess him to hide a face like that? Lord knows it’s not a confidence issue. He seems pretty damn happy with himself.

But it’s not like he’s let himself go, either. He’s not slouching on the couch with a bag of Doritos, wiping cheesy fingers over his boiler belly before he reaches for his tenth can of beer. Even lying there in baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt, it’s obvious he’s fit.

A chattering sound calls from outside. Bandit is perched on something in the screened-in porch, his front paws pressed against the glass, staring at me through beady black eyes.

“I am not letting you in.” I shake my head at him.

He chatters back in answer and then hops down. An odd thumping noise sounds. Curious what he’s up to, I wander over to the window, to find him standing next to an empty metal bowl, pawing at it like a dog. “You’re hungry,” I realize. “And I guess I’m supposed to feed you.” With a reluctant sigh, I head to the kitchen to put Jonah’s dinner in the fridge and, I guess, get a can of dog food for his not-pet raccoon.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter, pushing the sliding door open, an open can and spoon in hand. Jonah’s porch doesn’t have much on it. Basically just a few shelves and storage bins on one side and a giant plywood box on the other that I’m guessing is Bandit’s haven. There isn’t even anywhere to sit.

Bandit stands up on his hind legs and paws excitedly at the air. How much does this thing even eat? He’s half the size of Tim and Sid. A runt really. And cute as far as raccoons go, I guess.

“Shoo! Back up!” I scold, wary of his sharp claws as I scoop out half the can’s contents, my nose curling in disgust as the congealed mess flops into the bowl. “Ugh!” I cringe, feeling a slimy chunk land on my hand.

Bandit shoves his triangular face in and starts devouring it, not bothering to come up for air.

With an overwhelming urge to wash my hands, I turn to head back inside.

That’s when I notice the small wheels peeking out from beneath a heavy wool blanket, tucked into the corner. Wheels that remind me of suitcase luggage wheels.

A sneaking suspicion creeps over me and when I pull back one corner of the blanket and see a silver hard-case suitcase—my silver hard-case suitcase—I’m left gaping.

How the hell did my suitcases end up on Jonah’s porch, hiding under a blanket?

There’s only one way, really.

Jonah must have put them there.

Which means he’s been intentionally keeping my things from me.

How did he even get them? I feel my face screw up as I work through the possibilities. Did he fly to Anchorage and get them? If he did, he couldn’t have done it today. Or yesterday—because we were together all day. That means he must have gone the day before. And, what, stole my luggage from Billy?

He’s had my things for days.

But . . . why?

I glare at the sleeping giant through the window, feeling the overwhelming urge to march in there and slap him awake to explain himself. If he hadn’t been in a plane crash today, I might.

Fucking Jonah.

Have we gone a whole day yet without him irritating the hell out of me?

I make a point of banging the door frame as I drag my suitcases into the house, the hard plastic thumping against the metal. He doesn’t stir.

I wheel them past the couch, intentionally checking my hip against the side where his head rests, hard enough that I might have earned myself a bruise.

Nothing.

“You son of a bitch,” I growl as my anger boils over, letting the cases roll into the kitchen cabinets with a thud while I go back to get my laptop. “I should open the door and let Bandit in. Wouldn’t that be something to wake up to, asshole. You’d sure as hell deserve having your place ransacked.” What is he even going to say when I confront him tomorrow? Will he just smile smugly at me and throw a clever line?

And what will Agnes and my dad say? Will they shrug it off? Will my dad say he’ll have a talk with him? Will Agnes wave her hand and say, “Oh, he likes to play games,” or something along those lines again?

Looking at him lying there, blissfully dead to the world, that mop of straggly hair scattered over the pillow, that wiry, tangled bush on his face, I should just . . .