By Matilda Meyerson

I’d been staying in a restored vintage trailer at the Vashon Island Glamping Bed and Breakfast Inn for six months, on assignment with the FBI, to investigate an illegal import scheme that we thought was based on the island. I’d found very little evidence for a crime syndicate, but I was falling in love with the inn owner, based on her blueberry scones alone. The problem was, I didn’t really have great moves and hanging around her, helping her to harvest organic fruits and vegetables from her gardens, or talking to her while she baked, hadn’t resulted in any romantic action.

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