Page 40 of Sucker For You

Butthiswasnow, and Wes was waiting for her.

Or at least, he was waiting for two eggs to fry.

Yesterday’s jeans exchanged for frayed cargo shorts, a dish towel slung over the shoulder of a shirt emblazoned with a Save the Whales logo, hair pulled up into a sleep-frizzed bun, he was flipping the eggs to seal their yokes in a sheen of olive oil when she entered the kitchen. He waved away her apologies with a spatula. One eye still on the bubbling whites, he said, “Do you want a hard fry or a soft fry, small fry?”

That was all. He was smiling.

“Um. . . anything’s fine?”

“No, come on. Help me out.”

Her stomach rumbled. “Whatever you’re having, please.”

“Then your plate’s coming with a shot of Tabasco. Or that sauce from the Grocery Outlet. I like heat. Do you?”

No.

She kept quiet.

“Isabel.”Tap,tapwent his spatula against the pan. “I need to know things like this. If toothpaste could come up in our interview, food preferences are definitely on the menu. Which one of us cooks, and who does the dishes. Allergies. Favorites.”

He had a point.

“No hot sauce,” she admitted.

“No problem.” He jiggled the eggs through the last of their oil before tipping them onto plates. He started up the kettle. “Now, toast: light, dark, or been down to hell to fiddle with the devil?”

“Light.” She retrieved the seed loaf and popped slices into a toaster.

For research purposes, she asked his preference.

“I’m not picky. Too light, and it goes back. Too dark, and the charring gets scraped off. Anything’s fixable. Except toppings. How about those?”

A discussion regarding peanut butter, hummus, and pesto took them from the stove to the living room with their eggs, toast, a bowl of sliced cantaloupe, and mugs of herbal tea.

“Do you drink coffee?”

Chewing through a chunk of melon, Wes rolled his eyes. “Erin likes it and Adrian’s a grouch if he doesn’t get his dose first thing in the day. But caffeine’s not great for my brain. I’d choose a swim over a shot any day.”

“Mmm.” She sipped her tea—steeped just long enough to be bright without turning medicinal, nearly as refreshing as acold-water plunge. She signaled her consensus, and followed up with cantaloupe and a nibble of toast. “Did you go into the bay this morning?”

“Not yet. I don’t have any octopus sightings to report. Sorry about that. But,” around a large bite of hot sauce and eggs, his cheeks reddening with the effort of his mouthful, or the spice, “I was thinking: we should go out together. We’ll need to stage some dates for this runaway whirlpool romance, right? How about walking into downtown Monterey to scout locations after breakfast? Unless—you’re busy?”

A swim could wait. It had to.

After she secured her visa, though. . . whatwouldshe do with her time?

But that was a question for next September.

“I’m not busy.” Isabel put her fork aside, then folded her napkin back into a neat triangle. “And I’m finished.”

Swallowing a final bite, Wes flashed the universal diving symbol forokay, his thumb and index finger forming a circle. She answered in kind. Then she demonstrated her preferred technique for loading the dishwasher while he scraped out his frying pan in the sink. He asked for access to the shower (“Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I should’ve—”; “It’s fine, Buttercup”) and emerged smelling of soap and mint a few minutes later, before retrieving a camera from his equipment bag. Again, he flashed the symbol. This time, it was a question. She averted her eyes—he must have rushed with his towel, and his shirt clung to the damp muscle on his shoulders and abdomen—and nodded. What was the alternative? She had to do this.Soon. The dive watch strapped over an impressive tan line around Wes’s right wrist read just after eight o’clock.

Its face also displayed the date:September third.

She shivered. Despite sunlight burning through the fog as they headed past the bungalow’s driftwood gate and turned onto the Monterey Bay Coastal Trail, which navigated toward the city’s busy waterfront downtown, the air was cold through the thin cashmere sweater she’d slipped over her blouse. Rough, chilly slaps of wind blew over the dunes shifting across Del Monte Beach. Her skirt whipped around her calves. Isabel crossed her arms, rubbing her elbows, ducking her chin away from the illumination flaring off Wes’s camera lens. But the breeze continued to abrade her skin.

“Cold?”