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.

Inclining my chin, I begin walking. Graeme falls into step beside me. There are no real paths through this highland farm, so we amble between tree trunks and over roots. Soon the camera clicks and exclamations of delight from the guests fade away, and the only sounds are the soft shuffle of our shoes and the flutter of leaves on branches.

“Say ‘tortoise,’ ” says Graeme.

Huh? I whip around to look at him, eyebrows raised, and he takes my picture. “You didn’t.”

His smile widens. “I did.”

“You’re not posting that on the company’s Instagram, are you?”

He scrubs a hand across his stubbled jaw. “Hey, I’m sorry for posting a picture of Walsh. It was just so compelling—”

“Don’t worry about it. All’s fair in love and war.”

His lips tip into a mischievous grin. I swallow thickly.

A rustle in the underbrush steals our attention and we stop walking. I gasp as a giant tortoise emerges from behind a grove of bushes not twenty yards away.

And it’s not just any tortoise. It’s a massive mamma jamma, nearly as big as the armchair back in my apartment. It must weigh hundreds of pounds and is probably older than the Second World War. When it stretches out its long, wrinkly neck to tear up mouthfuls of grass, the claws on the tips of its paddlelike feet leave deep gouges in the dirt.

“Holy crap,” I breathe.

We venture closer, making sure to keep a respectful distance away so as not to startle it. I lift my phone and take a video. When we’re about fifteen feet away, Graeme sinks to the ground.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Absorbing the moment.”

Tugging down the hem of my shorts, I follow suit, kneeling onto the dry earth next to him. We sit there for several long minutes in companionable silence, observing the grazing tortoise, which is either blissfully unaware of or indifferent to our presence.