“Good to know. So, you think we should visit Rapture Island for the ghost town?”

“And because there’s a really cool sign there. You would love it.”

“Yeah?”

“Very unique. Your portfolio would thank you. And you’d thank me.”

“Okay. Liking this …”

“And you’ve been seasick-free for a couple weeks now, so I was thinking, you know. It’s not that far. We could take the Narwhal out there. Get you some good practice out on the water.” He runs the back of his index finger over the inside of my wrist. Barely a touch at all. I hold my breath as waves of shivers cascade over my skin.

“That’s true,” I say.

“Just a minute ago, your mom was joking about letting you off at noon on Sunday, saying you’d better be good while she was working her ass off for the rest of the day, but I was thinking, I don’t know … maybe we don’t be good. Maybe we sneak away on the Narwhal.”

My heart skips a couple of beats and then stumbles all over itself, trying to catch back up.

“What about Sunday dinner with your family?” I remind him.

He waggles his brows at me. “Maybe we skip Sunday dinner.”

“Lucky,” I say, feigning shock.

“We could have our own Sunday dinner on Rapture Island. Just the two of us. Picnic lunch. Picnic dinner. What’s between lunch and dinner? Linner? Picnic linner?”

“I think it’s called ‘your mom getting mad at us for skipping a family function just so I can take a photograph of a cool sign’?”

“The things I do for art,” he says, stealing a quick kiss before my mother spies us through the kitchen window. “It will be our little secret,” he says, heading backwards down the steps and speaking in a low voice. “We’ll be back before anyone misses us. Before the Nook closes. And before my mom gets too mad about Sunday dinner. Run away with me?”

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll run away with you.”

Feeling giddy, I watch him race down the steps and head off to the Superhawk. It’s not until he’s speeding off down the road that I realize I never had the chance to tell him about what I found in my mother’s closet. I’m definitely not telling her. I’d have to tell her how I came by the information, and that wouldn’t go over well.

And as I catch Evie’s silhouette moving across the kitchen window, I remember that there are more pressing relationship matters in the Saint-Martin family that probably need more attention than ones buried in literal closets. Maybe I should try to talk to her now. Not tomorrow.