Page 54 of Sucker For You
“Maybe.” Isabel introduced a few textured rocks into the tank. She connected the new protein skimmer. While she replaced the aquarium’s security measures, she told him, “She evidently wasn’t given living food in the lab. She never acquired the camouflage skills to hunt effectively, and did you notice how she isn’t cautious around the crab’s claws? A large and angry crustacean could do significant damage to her. She’d need to learn to handle a live one safely.”
“She’s smart. Too smart.” Wes scuffed at the half-shell’s moist imprint on the carpet. “She’d figure it out.”
“Yes, but I. . .” Isabel’s fingers knotted into the fringe of her sarong when she wiped her hands over its print. “I worry abouther being hurt again. Even accidentally. Here with—us. And I know we just returned to the house, and it’s late”—half pastSurf’s Up, according to the funky wall clock, translating to fourthirty—“but I need to go back to MORI.”
“You want to sign up for your volunteering-slash-secret-agent gig.”
“Yes.”
She was exactly as patient as their nameless octopus:not at all.
“I’ll come with you. Do you want to change first, though? If you show up in that swimsuit and ask for dirty work, they might send you into a shark tank to do some teeth-cleaning.”
“Captive sharks don’t need oral cleanings from their keepers. Not when they shed and replace their teeth organically. . . But,” and now she fixed him with alook, shaking her head, “you’re joking.”
“Yeah,” he grinned.
Isabel disappeared into the bedroom. He barely had time to swap his trunks for this morning’s cargo shorts and his sandals for steel-capped boots, then crack open his new SIM card to start rebooting his phone, before she was back: cuffed trousers, otter sweatshirt, tight ponytail.
“Playing with fish guts and fire?” Wes pointed at her exposed toes as he grabbed his matching sweatshirt, pocketed his phone and keys, and checked the octopus’s tank one more time. Not that it mattered. If she got bored with her crab and wanted out, she’d get out. He led Isabel to Baby.
“My sandals have better traction than the ballet flats. I didn’t pack for Monterey. Or MORI.” She frowned and picked at her bare fourth finger, worrying the skin.
He’d been joking again. She wasn’t laughing, though. Or smiling. Or even looking at him.
“Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say—”
“It wasn’t wrong.”
“But—”
Ping.
With a chirp, his phone propped on the Jeep’s dashboard interrupted his ham-fisted attempts to apologize for being a numbskull. Its automated voice began to read off a stream of incoming messages through an abrupt, awkward silence in the cab as he maneuvered onto Monterey’s northbound coastal highway. Wesley Robert Monaghan had reentered the family chat.
Adrian Monaghan
Just booked my 11:35 p.m. red eye from Newark to San Francisco.
Erin Monaghan
Gross. That must mean you’re getting in around, what—6 a.m.?
Adrian
6 a.m. on September twelfth.
Erin
I can fit your pickup in before Ethan’s satellite launch. How much coffee do you want me to have ready when I get you from the airport?
Adrian
I’ve got an early meeting with investors on my arrival date. So how big is your bicycle basket? Can you carry a gallon of espresso?
Erin
Very funny. I’ll take Ethan’s hatchback. I might even vacuum up some of the dog hair first. Just for you.
