Page 33 of Sucker For You

A burst of pickle juice was aggressively sour on his tongue. “Uh, could we do this out loud?”

“Why? With this method, we can study our answers for the interview.”

She was right.

He admitted as much with a hitch of a shoulder and another massive bite of chickpeas, to defer explaining the truth.Crunch,crunch. Eventually, though, he finished his bite. He surmised wryly, “You were smart in school, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” Her pen hesitated. “Except for days when. . .”

“. . . when you were sick? Yeah. Have you always had migraines? Sorry—if that’s not too personal to ask.”

“Yes. But no, it’s not too personal. Nothing is. Not if we’re going to successfully—”

“—get through that bullshit interview?”

“—commit immigration fraud.”

He snorted; onion burned in his nose. “According to about a million dating profiles, being partners-in-crime is a prerequisite for a good relationship. We’re on the right track.”

Isabel didn’t laugh. She did put down her pen to prod a loose chickpea, however, shaking her head even while her fingers inched closer to her own sandwich. “Most dating app users won’t be selecting for chronic illnesses. Genetic ones. Unpredictable ones. My migraines, they. . . they have the usual triggers. Loud noises, bright lights, dehydration. But sometimes there’s no external trigger. They just happen because of something in my body chemistry. There’s nothing I can do. Or there wasn’t, until I started the Ceretobicin trial. It’s not perfect. I still have bad days. But it’s better.”

“Did your parents also have migraines? Only—since we should talk about our families, right? And I have to warn you: mine neverstopstalking.”

“I don’t know.” She nibbled at her sandwich. The reef tank burbled while she chewed through an inch of crust, frowning. Then, from behind a napkin, erasing the evidence of crumbs on her lips, pushing away her plate, “Um, I—I don’t know who they were. Are. I was put in a safe haven box at a local hospital. They’re secure places to leave infants whose parents can’t care for them, or who don’t. . . I grew up in British Columbia’s government homes. What you’d term the foster system. I wasn’t ever. . . I aged out. Most adoptive parents want a young child.But one with a chronic illness? I wasn’t easy. The migraines and allodynia—the nerve pain—started when I was six. Years before I was taking Ceretobicin. It was horrible. For me. For everyone. So I—I don’t blame them. I don’t blame the family that tried. During my episodes I was. . . unmanageable.”

Unmanageable: Isabel, her voice devoid of almost all inflection, of emotion. Simple facts. Grief, trauma, pain—calm and flat, just like answering interview questions.

Deep under his ribs, something twinged.

Unmanageable?

She thought she’d been difficult as a child, because she’d been suffering?

But if she’d barely stomached his sandwich, she sure as hell wouldn’t want Wes’s sympathy. What hecouldoffer was this:

“I was a terror as a kid.”

She needed to know. With the avalanche of legal forms for her visa and his boat registration?

“I’m dyslexic,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He forced a laugh. He didn’t want her pity, either, and didn’t want her to worry that he might become a problem for her instead of a solution. With all that paperwork and the interview, though? She really had to know. “Even when I wasn’t taking baseball bats or soccer balls to the skull during recess, I was bad at school. Erin jokes that her physics PhD caused permanent head damage, but I don’t have a fancy degree, just the—”

“Were you teased, too?” Her eyes rose to his.

The twinge in his chest tightened.Too? But Isabel didn’t need his questions. She needed answers. For their interview. He cleared a cranberry from his throat. “No. I mean, not for long. The other kids learned fast not to try anything with me. I gotmy growth spurt early. I wasn’t shy with my fists. Bullies learned even faster not to go after my younger brother—Adrian—and definitely not Erin.”

Bullies like Chase—and a surge of adrenaline contracted his muscles, his hands curling into balls.

Isabel’s arms instantly, and maybe instinctively, wrapped around her ribs in response. Her body hunched into itself, making her small, her gaze darting away, low and shadowed. Her lips thinned.

Shit.

He unfisted his hands with conscious effort and splayed them on his thighs. “Sorry.”

One shoulder twitched.