The wall speakers crackle with an impending announcement. “Good evening, good evening. If you would like to visit historic Post Office Bay, disembarkation begins in fifteen minutes. Post Office Bay, fifteen minutes. Please make your way to the mudroom, and don’t forget your postcard. Thank you.”

I lick my dry lips and type out a response.

Are you doing the post office excursion?

Yes

Let’s talk then

Sounds like a plan.

18

Walsh took her sweet time in the shower, so we ended up on the last Zodiac to shore. Graeme must have caught an earlier one because I didn’t see him in the mudroom. Our boat bounces along the surface of the water, engine chugging, and I clutch my hair over one shoulder to keep the wind from whipping it in my face.

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?”