Page 100 of Sucker For You

Even if he was only here for a little while longer, though, only until his five-week stint with MORI was over and he sailed away to the Revillagigedo Islands in Mexico or Indonesia’s LembehStrait, he was with herright now—his belief and his serious shadow at her side in a shaft of stained-glass light streaming through the bungalow windows.

Maybe that was enough. For her courage with Chase, and her courage tomorrow.

Maybe she could make it enough: his belief, and this brief time when he was hers.

Almost mine.

It would have to be enough.

“Thank you,” she told him, for all he’d said and all that she hadn’t.

He nodded. Then he headed for the kitchen, returning with microwaved leftovers from his dinner at Osteria Al Mare split between two bowls. He took his usual seat on the couch and jabbed a fork into his noodles. “Right: besides this veggie lasagna, what options are on the table for telling MORI about Brianne’s octopus trafficking?”

“If I’d just recorded her call. . .” She poked through roasted bell peppers and zucchini, and swirled them in a puddle of marinara sauce. When she shrugged, her stiff muscles twinged. Too much tension, too much anxious feeling. She’d made no apologies to Chase today, however—though she also hadn’t officially canceled their wedding. But there had been more important things to discuss.

And again:no apologies.

That was something. Something good.

“Yeah. But there’s no point in crying over spilled—uh, nurse shark milk.” Wes extracted a sprig of parsley from his teeth, before pulling a face at her. “Sorry. Too much of a stretch?”

“Yes.” Still, a little of the strain eased from her neck.

“That’s fair.” He stabbed a mushroom. “How about talkingto the volunteer coordinator, Mehar? Or another researcher? Even Dr. Solomon.”

She’d engaged in successful scientific conversation with some of the volunteers and a few scientists, yes. (Not Dr. Solomon, of course.) MORI’s people were friendly. She wasn’t such a cold fish there in the wet lab. Or at least she wasn’t the only one; no one minded when she enthused about shark teeth or octopus gardens. But this discussion that Wes proposed? It wouldn’t be a simple question of where to find the Epsom salts used to treat fish constipation. This would be an accusation against one of MORI’s own. . .

“Hell, you could go straight to the director. Wildlife trafficking’s such a serious charge that she’d have to investigate your claim, even without hard proof like a recording or incriminating pictures, or—no, wait.” His fork clattered down. He snapped his fingers. “Isabel. What if I got the proof for you? What if I caught Brianne in the act? I could photograph her abducting BioPulse’s next octopus from the hatching tank—”

“—if we knew how and when she planned to make the extraction tomorrow. Which we don’t,” she reminded him. “If she takes the two-spot after-hours, you might get your photographs. You could also be arrested for trespassing.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I do.”

“But—”

“I care, Wes.” He had to understand this.

Please.

Maybe—eventually—he did. After a long moment, he sighed and shook his head. A strand of gold-bleached hair escaped his bun, tickling his earring. He forked up a lump of spinach. “Fine. Then what? What’s the plan?”

The plan.

She shouldn’t have eaten her last three bites of lasagna. Thinking about what she’d have to do and say tomorrow—the subjective testimony she’d have to give, the personal proof she’d have to trust—made nausea bubble in her stomach. These were only thoughts! Not even actions.

Wes believed her, though.

And the intelligent, remarkable, voiceless octopuses? They needed her.

She’d speak for them because she had to. That was the plan.

Her resolve didn’t stop her voice from shaking when she explained her intentions to him.

Wes just nodded again. “But that’s tomorrow’s prob—plan. For now, how about a beach walk? We can get our feet wet, maybe catch the sunset from Old Fisherman’s Wharf.”

They left the two-spot dozing in her coral cove, retrieved their sweatshirts, and crossed Tide Avenue onto the beach. Kicking away their sandals, they shuffled through the firm sand just below a high-tide line of kelp. Chilly evening air feathered Isabel’s cheeks as they passed a group of wakeboarders returning from the bay with goosebumps and salty grins, a dog racing through a flock of gulls, and—as they closed their distance toward the wharf—a few fishermen with lines and beers set up on the shore.