Page 63 of Sucker For You

But with Wes’s thumb idly tracing patterns on her arm through her sweatshirt fleece, maybe. . . maybe she could ignore it, like she was ignoring Chase’s calls? For a little while. For long enough. Isabel exhaled, willing herself to relax, to swallow a few bites of chickpeas, to nod when Wes pointed her attention to a sheen of bioluminescence welling up through the offshore breakers. Maybe she could ignore the itch on her neck, the shards of memory lodged in her gut and her brain—thin hospital gown, cold metal chair, bright flash of lenses, what’s wrong with her?—and could focus instead on the ocean’s chemical reaction between luciferin and luciferase, could—

Couldn’tignore Wes’s yelp.

“Ah!” Dropping his sandwich mid-bite, both his hands darted out to shoo the seagull that swooped toward their picnic. “No—get out of here, you winged rodent!”

The bird flapped off, squawking. It only landed down by the high tide line again, however. Turning back toward their dinner, its beady eyes caught the last of the sunset’s red glow.

“Shit. Now I’ve got mustard on my face.” Wes glowered at the gull. When he swiped his palm across his mouth, he caught a small yellow splatter, but missed the condiment slick on his chin. He swiped again and smeared the mustard deeper into his stubble. He snorted. “I can feel the mess, but I can’t see it.”

She shouldn’t laugh.

Isabel hid the tickle in her lips by bending to retrieve a loose corner of their beach towel. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He overshot the mustard a third time.

“It’s a bit lower,” she said. “Um—no, to the left.”

“Jesus. Help me? For the camera.”

For the camera?

Yes, she could do this.

For the camera, she made an oversized napkin of their blanket. For the camera, she feathered it over Wes’s jaw. Skirting the dimpled corners of his mouth, she wiped away the mustard.For the camera.But then she leaned a little closer through the dusk, because. . . were there crumbs beside the condiments in his stubble?Yes. He wouldn’t be able to see those, either. Would he? Breathless, but determined to help—for the camera—she brushed them into the sand. The dark golden bristles on his cheeks were rough against her fingertips, though pliant to the touch.Fascinating. Her thumb edged the sun-chapped curve of his lower lip. . . and had she dropped the towel?Yes, again. But maybe that was all right. It would have blocked the camera’s view.

Isn’t this better?

For the photographs.

For the interview. . .

“This is so embarrassing.” A new wave of raspy laughter rumbled under her palm. “I’ll take this as a sign to shave. Get myself cleaned up, in case we’re at the courthouse tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

“I like you as you are,” her dark-drunk mouth said.

Fortunately, Wes just went on laughing. “Sure, thanks. The camera’s not recording audio, though. You don’t have to whisper sweet nothings about my sunburns and my jellyfish stings, or how sexy my sunscreen smells. And—I didn’t pack a tux, either. I’m guessing we didn’t miss one alongside the VHS tapes at the thrift store tonight?” He snorted.

She exhaled in relief. (Not in disappointment. Besides, if she was exhaling, she couldn’t possibly be sniffing for the scent of his sunscreen.) She folded away her hands. “We didn’t. Not even in tie-dye.”

“A huge overlooked market,” with a third laugh, before he sobered. “So, no tux. I don’t even have a suit. If we get married tomorrow, I’ll be in jeans. Or cargo shorts. My mom’s going to kill me twice. Once because she missed the ceremony, once for the shorts. Nothing about this will be as nice as your San Francisco plans.”

Nice?

He couldn’t be worried about that. Or even thinking about it.

Could he?

Nice.

“They weren’t my plans,” she said. “At the St. Francis Yacht Club on Friday. Not on September thirtieth at the Officers’ Club, either.”

“His?”

“His mother’s.”

“For God’s sake.”