Shipped(58)

Outside, a handful of fishermen are selling their morning catch at a table set up near the water. I take a picture of a massive sea lion resting its head on the table next to a fisherman’s elbow like a dog begging for a treat.

The chatter on the bus grows louder as it fills with passengers.

Without warning, Nikolai pops his head over the seats in front of me. I jolt. “Good morning,” he purrs, but the effect is ruined when he bumps his head on the low overhead storage rack. Wincing, he rubs the spot.

“Good morning,” I say politely.

“I have not seen much of you these last few days. You have not been avoiding me, have you?”

I force a strained smile. “Just busy.” And avoiding him whenever possible.

Dwight is sitting next to Nikolai; I can’t see him since his seat is blocking my view, but I catch his low voice, murmuring an unintelligible admonishment. Nikolai mutters something back then refocuses his attention on me.

“I wonder, is this seat taken?” He nods to the empty seat beside me, already inching out of his row.

“Actually…” I quickly look for an escape. Several rows up, Graeme is making his way down the aisle. I exhale in relief. “Graeme!” I call. “There you are. I saved you a seat… like you asked,” I enunciate with a meaningful flick of my eyes at Nikolai.

“Super, thanks.” The smile Graeme gives me makes my stomach muscles quiver involuntarily. “Nikolai,” he acknowledges as he passes the other man.

Nikolai’s lips pucker like he’s just swallowed a lemon. “I hope you enjoy the turtles.”

“Tortoises,” Graeme corrects.

“You too,” I say to Nikolai.

Swinging his backpack off, Graeme lowers himself into the seat next to me. A buzz of electricity surges between us when his knee brushes mine—warm skin on skin. I pretend not to notice.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome.” His voice is low and as smooth as melted chocolate. He shifts subtly, causing more contact. The air between us crackles with undeniable energy.

With a mischievous grin, he reaches down as though to adjust his backpack at his feet but grazes my knee with his fingertips instead. I shiver as heat pools low in my body. Since when are knees erogenous zones?

“You’re cheating,” I croak.

“Am I?” he drawls.

With a crooked smile, he pulls away, just enough to break our minuscule contact.

I suck in a trembling breath to steady myself before yanking my water bottle out of my bag and taking a sip. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye—he’s studying me intently. Inclining his chin, he takes a Galápagos field guide from his pack and begins reading.

It’s a clear reminder: the bet is still mine to win. Or lose. I can’t keep track anymore which is which.

Gustavo lumbers up the aisle, counting guests. When he reaches the end, he shouts an “okay to go” to the driver. I bounce as the bus rumbles over the curb and onto the street.

It’s barely nine in the morning, I’ve spent approximately four minutes in Graeme’s company, and I’m ready to rip off our clothes and set this bus on fire.

How in the world am I going to survive the day?





20




Xiavera halts our group of a dozen passengers. Around us, the lush tropical highlands are a stark contrast to the windy beaches and arid lowlands of the rest of the archipelago. Towering scalesia trees form a canopy over the grass-covered, red-clay ground, and the air carries the fecund scent of rot and growth—the smell of a healthy forest.

Behind Xiavera, four giant tortoises loiter in the undergrowth. None of them are particularly big—the largest is the size of a cocker spaniel—but they’re still incredible. Wizened heads poke out of slick, patterned shells. Cameras click all around, including Graeme’s. He’s standing several feet away, while I’ve ensconced myself between a pair of elderly women, but I don’t need to look to know where he is. My body already does.

“Decades ago, this sight was not possible,” explains Xiavera. “When Charles Darwin came to the Galápagos Islands, giant tortoises were plentiful, but then they were hunted to near-extinction by sailors. It is only because of intensive breeding programs that we see tortoises in the highlands today. People are the problem. But they can also be the solution.”

Rolling up the sleeve of her red hiking shirt, she checks her watch. “Okay, you have an hour to explore the highlands on your own. We will reconvene at the welcome center at half past eleven.”

Guests immediately peel off. Five head for the nearby tortoises, cameras poised. Two more, a husband and wife, take off at a brisk pace back toward the welcome center. Walsh is already gone, having joined a different group as soon as we got off the bus. And Xiavera accompanies two couples as they meander through the undergrowth.

And just like that, Graeme and I are alone.

I shift my weight and adjust my day pack. I could make an excuse and head to the welcome center too. Maybe find a hammer, crack open my brain, and poke around for a proposal idea, since a good one refuses to come out.

But then Graeme smiles, and I feel it down to the very tips of my toes. He sweeps his arm in a gesture of invitation.

Who am I kidding? I want Graeme’s company like a drowning man wants oxygen. Even if I can’t admit it out loud.