Graeme throws his head back and laughs. The sound is rich and warm like molten chocolate cake. Still chuckling, he shakes his head slowly. “You, Henley Rose, are too much.”

Shifting in my seat, I cross my legs and perch an elbow on the sofa back. “So where have you been today? I didn’t see you on the plane this morning.”

“Why, did you miss me?”

“Like herpes.”

His nostrils flare. “I flew into San Cristóbal on Wednesday to do some exploring and boarded the ship a few hours before you got here.”

The fake smile slides off my face like goop. Graeme’s been in the Galápagos for three days already? Damn it, I should have thought to fly out early too.

Yeah right. I’m too busy to take extra leave. Being away for ten days is going to be hard enough, let alone nearly two weeks; I’ll be checking in every day as it is. How nice for Graeme that his workload is manageable enough to take the extra time off.

Anger at the fact that James thinks we’re equals—even though I clearly work harder than him—boils to the surface.

Gustavo’s voice cuts through my seething thoughts. “Good afternoon, good afternoon,” his voice buzzes through the speakers. “If everyone could please take a seat, we will begin the briefing.”

The remaining guests filter through the room, talking and laughing. To my surprise, Graeme stands and shuffles over to sit next to me on the sofa. His leg is a full foot away, but still close enough that it’s weirding me out. There’s no phone screen, no incorporeal voice floating across a phone line. He’s here and he’s real.

He leans over until we’re practically shoulder to shoulder. I catch another whiff of his intoxicating scent and inhale deeply through my nose before I can give myself a mental kick.

“Look, I know we’re both here because we’re competing for the same position,” he says. “But I want you to know—”

“Hey,” says Walsh. She’s standing in front of us, holding a pair of beers. Flicking a glance between me and Graeme, she curves her lips upward, slow and calculated. I’ve seen that look before. I furrow my brows. What does she think she’s doing?

She hands me one of the beers and flounces into the chair that Graeme vacated. Setting her bottle on the table, she crosses her legs—linen espadrille bobbing—and leans forward until her cleavage peeks from the neckline of her striped boatneck shirt.

“You must be Graeme,” she croons.

Yep, she’s going for it: full-on flirt mode. Cold condensation slicks my palm. I set my beer next to hers without taking a sip.

“And you must be Henley’s sister.”

“Walsh Evans.” She sticks out her hand, palm down.