Even now, he’s scuttling my shot at gaining an advantage. I scheduled this meeting with Analisa two weeks ago, while he only thought of it at the last second. I wanted to get an insider’s look at the breeding center and pick her brain in private about the region. I needed this boost.

But excluding Graeme would be a shitty thing to do. He has every right to meet with Analisa, same as me.

“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“Really.”

After searching my face for several heartbeats, he spreads his supple lips in a grin—lips that only three short days ago were pressed against mine. “Okay then.”

Analisa’s tour is a whirlwind. After the outdoor enclosures, which are full of adult tortoises of various species and surrounded by throngs of visitors, she leads us through quieter areas closed to the general public: juvenile rearing pens (baby tortoises, squee!) and research buildings.

Through it all, Graeme and I engage in a silent dance of nearness and retreat. I touch his forearm to point out a bright yellow warbler hopping on a stone wall behind us. He grasps my elbow to lead me around a mud puddle obscuring the path. But each time, we pull away before the proximity can pull us under.

I listen intently to Analisa, and we both pepper her with questions. She leads us through lab after lab, and we stop in one that’s filled to the brim with cases of creeping, crawling insects.

“Hola, mi querido,” she calls to a lanky man with gray-streaked blond hair who’s hunched over a microscope.

When he spots Analisa, his craggy face splits into a grin. “G’day, love. This is a nice surprise.” He tugs her into his lap and gives her a lingering kiss on the cheek.

My own cheeks warm. Not that I’m opposed to a bit of light PDA, but these two are so clearly to-the-moon-and-back in love with each other that their mutual affection is blinding.

“Friends of yours?” He nods at us.

“No, these are my colleagues. I told you I was giving a tour today, remember? It’s why I asked for this.” She lifts the dangling access badge from around her neck.

Smacking his forehead, the man stands and sets Analisa on her feet again. I notice his T-shirt for the first time: it’s distressed gray and reads Entomologists Fear No Weevil. I suppress a snort. “Right. I’d forget my own head if Analisa didn’t remind me. I’m Doug, her husband.”

He extends his hand and we make our introductions.

“Dr. Douglas Shaw,” she corrects, lifting her chin with pride. “One of the preeminent entomologists in the Galápagos.”

“I take it you’re not from here,” says Graeme.

“You think?” Doug barks a laugh as he motions at his own ruddy complexion. “I’m an Australian import, mate.”