Shipped(52)

As we approach the island, I catch sight of Graeme. He’s meandering down the beach, gaze down, hands stuffed into pockets, linen pants rolled up to midshin. It’s sexy as hell.

I clamp my teeth together to fight the wave of attraction that swamps me. I’m doing the right thing by telling him we need to keep things platonic, I am. Definitely. No doubts whatsoever.

The driver backs the Zodiac onto the beach and we climb out.

“Want me to come with?” Walsh asks, unbuckling her life jacket and tossing it on top of the others piled in a canvas bin.

Shrugging off my own life jacket, I shake my head. “No, thanks, I got this.”

“The historic post barrel is a short walk this way,” a young naturalist tells our small group. Walsh flashes me a thumbs-up before following the crowd down a sandy path through the thick, scrubby trees. Pressing my shoulders back, I set off toward Graeme. My stomach trembles: not with butterflies—dainty, weak things—but with hedgehogs. Spiky, angry hedgehogs waging a battle royal in my gut. Graeme looks up as I approach. The waning sunlight catches his face and the hedgehogs pummel my rib cage.

The most genuine, soul-stirring smile forms and his entire aspect brightens when his eyes meet mine.

My steps falter. No one’s ever looked at me like that before—like I’m the sunrise after a long winter’s night. Or the first present on Christmas morning. It’s a look you see in movies, and from Graeme, it’s devastating.

Doubt creeps along my spine, but I shove it down deep. The low sigh of waves rolling in and retreating from the shore echoes in my ears as I begin walking again. Graeme lengthens his strides, and we meet in the middle.

“Hi,” I say, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my shorts.

“Hey.”

Awkward silence hangs between us.

He opens his mouth, but then rocks back on his heels as though he’s changed his mind about whatever he was going to say. “How’s Walsh?”

“Huh?”

“She seemed pretty surprised when she walked in on us earlier, and given how she’s been acting toward me all day…” He motions vaguely, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh, oh. You’re worried she was upset over catching us… together?”

He nods. I click my molars. Truth time.

“She’s fine. We talked. And actually, she doesn’t like you like that.”

He jerks his head back in surprise. “Well, good. That’s good news. But then why all the—”

“Flirting?” I say. “This is going to sound crazy, but she was trying to distract you. To help me, I guess. She figured if you were focused on her, you wouldn’t be focused on the promotion.” Twisting my hands together, I wince. “Sorry. I didn’t know that’s what she was doing.”

Graeme scrubs a hand through his hair. “Well, I was trying to make you jealous, so let’s call it even.” The corner of his lips twitches, and he begins meandering down the beach. I fall into step beside him. Low, indistinguishable chatter hums through the trees; we’re alone, but the guests aren’t far away.

“Did you bring a postcard?” I ask. Not the most riveting conversation piece, but at least it’s a safe topic.

He nods. “Who are you sending yours to?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“Parents?”

I chuckle. “They’d probably never get it. No one goes to Careywood, Idaho. I’m thinking Christina.”

As Gustavo explained it, the way Floreana’s post barrel works is you leave a postcard inside and future travelers serve as unofficial mailmen. They look through the cards and take any with an address close to their final destination for hand delivery—no stamp needed. It’s apparently a tradition that started with early sailors to the Galápagos.

The catch: there’s no telling when someone will come along who will be going where you want your postcard to go, so it could be weeks, months, or years before your postcard gets delivered. And bumble-bum, Idaho, is a long way from just about everywhere.

“How about you?” I ask. “Will Mom get a note from her favorite son?”

Graeme’s mouth tightens and his jaw muscles twitch. “My mom passed away a year and a half ago.” His voice is soft and matter-of-fact, but it still reverberates through the balmy air like a gong.

My stomach bottoms out and my mouth goes drier than the sand on my toes.

The pieces begin clicking into place. When I FaceTimed with him the other week, he was walking through a cemetery. Probably the cemetery where his mother is buried. His desire to move somewhere completely new and leave his old life behind suddenly makes sad, perfect sense. Even his offhand comment about not being on his A game when he first started at Seaquest was probably because he was grieving his mom.

I suck in a sharp breath. Oh God, the number of times I’ve made mom jokes. I want to throw up.

I stop walking. So does he.

“I’m sorry,” I say, touching his arm.

After a long moment, he dips his chin in acknowledgment.

“How… ?”

“ALS.”

Oh God, ALS is brutal. A tragic way to go—and a tragic condition for family to witness. To lose your mother to a degenerative disease like that… No wonder he took a step back in his career after a hiatus. He probably didn’t need the stress.