The knock comes again, less tentative this time. “Coming,” I yell. Standing, I rub feeling back into my prickling thighs as I edge through the living room. The thin fabric of my yoga pants is slick against my palms.

I open the front door. And nearly faint.

It’s not Barbara.

Graeme is standing in my hallway. It’s him. Here. In person.

His scent breaks through my shock first, that citrusy cedar bouquet, followed by the vaguely rumpled state of his appearance. He’s wearing jeans and a faded blue polo and his customary black backpack. His cheeks are scruffy and his eyes widen when they meet mine.

“Thanks for following me back,” he says. And for one insane moment, I wonder if following him back on Instagram summoned him here through a magic portal in the ether.

“You’re welcome.”

He scrubs a hand across the nape of his neck. “I came to see you. I hope you don’t mind I let myself up. There was a woman running out of your building and I caught the door before it closed.”

Probably Barbara.

“How… do you even know where I live?”

The wood floor creaks behind me, and just as I turn around, Walsh scurries into the living room. “Ah.” Walsh.

“When I couldn’t reach you, I messaged Walsh to make sure you were okay. She told me, very emphatically, that I should hop the first flight to Seattle. So here I am. And, well, I thought I’d give you this.”

Reaching into his bag, he pulls something out—a postcard.

My postcard.

The one I wrote to myself on Floreana Island. Graeme must have fished it out of the historic post office barrel when I wasn’t looking. A bark of incredulous laughter escapes me. When I take it, our fingers brush and I can’t stop a shiver of energy from zinging through my veins.

“I was intending on delivering it later, but today seemed like the right time.”

Lifting the card, I read the three words I penned to myself in an oversized scrawl.

Keep chasing sharks.

Letting out a breathy laugh, I tap the card against my palm. I’ve been chasing a shark all evening, and with Graeme here…

I might chase the biggest shark of all.

“I’m turning down the promotion,” he says.

My eyes snap to his. “What? You can’t.”

He shakes his head, a wry smile gracing his angular lips. “It’s for the best. I don’t believe in getting ahead at the expense of someone else. You weren’t given a fair shake, and that’s not okay. I’m turning it down and—”

I grab his biceps. “I don’t want the promotion anymore.”

He blinks at me like I’ve sprouted another head. “You don’t?”