Page 27 of Sucker For You

In her pocket, her phone vibrated; a new spasm of anxiety jolted up her spine.

I have to make a choice, make a plan—

“No, I can’t stay.”

Isabel moved off a winding boardwalk and across the tide-sculpted dunes of Sandholdt Beach so lightly that her feet barely left impressions in the sand. Her silence was a heavy thing, however, the brightness of her enthusiasm in the lab just minutes earlier snuffed out. Her eyes were smoke.

Wes’s own gait left wallows, scattering saltigrade sand fleas. He couldn’t keep pace. “Isabel—wait.”

She stopped. She dug the toe of her right sandal into a lump of marine detritus. But at least she was listening.Maybe. At least she was aware of him. Removed from the distractions inside MORI, though, she seemed to be dwelling again on the events of last night—plus this morning’s revelations. Honestly, who wouldn’t be anxious or depressed in her circumstances? Who wouldn’t kick sand? He’d never been in a position to protest if a partner of his had wanted to open their casual relationship to other people. But Isabel’s engagement to Ethan’s brother wasn’t remotely comparable to his arrangement with his temporary friends.

A caterer at the wedding shower? What an asshole.

He managed to stop himself before he blundered through some stupid question likeAre you all right?yet again. Could hedistract her instead, tempt her into emerging from beneath the snarled curtain of her hair? He could try.

“It seems like you’ve got expertise on the whole enchilada,” he hazarded. “The practicalandthe legal sides of marine biology research.”

Isabel continued to work at the sand with her sandal, frowning and digging down to where the ambient water table oozed moisture toward the surface.

So he went for the direct approach: “You do know you don’t have to marry a guy who’s cheated on you, just because you’ve got a wedding date set. Right? That’s what cancellation fees are for. It’s not a life-or-death situation—”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” He stopped.

Her voice was low and tight, her lips taut, with lines scoring her cheeks. When her gaze broke away from the sand, the wistful gray of her irises had hardened to steel.

“Not life-and-death. Not completely. But Iamin a Phase Three clinical trial to confirm the efficacy and safety of a new drug therapy.” Despite the grit gusting up around them, she didn’t blink. “I take an experimental medication to control my migraines and nerve pain. Ceretobicin. It’s the one drug that actually manages my symptoms. For insurance and liability reasons, the trial is only available to United States residents in California. Which I am. But my NAFTA work visa won’t be renewed next August. Not after my migraines made it impossible for me to continue working at the Seattle Aquarium: my job sponsor. I have until next summer before I’m deported. Eleven months with a chronic illness that’s largely controlled. But then I’ll lose access to the medication. So it—it does currently feel close to life-and-death—”

Shit.

Suddenly, so many of the mysteries about her made sense.

“That’s why you’re still planning to marry the jerk,” Wes said. “You need permanent residency status. You need a Green Card to stay in the United States, where you’re eligible for your drug trial.”

Her sandal dug back into its hole. “If everything goes well, the application process takes ten months. That’s why I have to marry Chase in September of this year. Otherwise, I won’t have a new spousal visa approved before my current professional one expires. The system doesn’t care what happens to me if I can’t get a renewal. There’s no appeal process. I’m just a number for both the United States government and the Ceretobicin trial—because they have to be objective, and I understand that, even if I. . . But you must think I’m a terrible person.”

Dig,dig.

“What?”

“For using Chase like this. For not. . . loving him. When I should. He’s handsome, and he’s charming, and he’s a doctor. He’s perfect. Shouldn’t it be easy?”

“Isabel. This asshole fucked a caterer in a bathroom last night, then jetted off to Las Vegas—Vegas!—without apologizing, and stranded you here to deal with the fallout.”

Somehow, she thoughtshewas the problem?

That fucker—

“That’s not true.”

“What the hell did I just say that isn’t true?”

“He did apologize.” She extracted her phone. Isabel opened a catalog of what must be Chase’s latest messages. Scrolling past assertions of misunderstanding, justifications, and requests for her to call him—which veered between persuading, guilttripping,and outright demands—she highlighted the text in question. “See?”

Dr. Chase Meyer Jr.

I get it. You need some time to cool down. I respect that. And I got upgraded to first class on an earlier flight to Vegas yesterday. I’ll give you space.