“Well, you did.”

“When?”

“In the marketing meeting right after the video was posted. James congratulated you on it and you said, ‘Thank you.’ He even went on to berate me for not coming up with the idea myself since Costa Rica is my region. And you didn’t say a word to correct him.”

Jerking off his baseball cap, Graeme scrubs a hand roughly through his hair. “I don’t remember any of that. Was it right after I started?”

“Yeah. So?”

He expels a heavy breath. “It was my phone.”

“You expect me to believe that you programmed your phone with sophisticated AI to respond for you, in your exact voice?” My tone is drier than hot sand.

“No. The first phone the company shipped me was crap. The speakers crackled and it dropped calls all the time. I probably didn’t actually hear exactly what James said and only responded with ‘Thank you’ to cover my ass.”

“That’s… that’s…” I make a disgusted noise in my throat. “So you pretended to listen and chimed in when it suited you?”

“Not my finest moment, okay? I should have owned up and said I didn’t hear him—or probably half the meeting thanks to the shitty connection. I’m sorry. Honestly, I wasn’t on my A game when I first started this job. I was going through a lot,” he adds in a mumble.

What a load of BS. I’m prepared to fire back a snarky reply, but the words stick in my throat. A memory from the meeting niggles at the corner of my brain. After James spoke but before Graeme answered, there was phone static and several seconds of silence.

Could he be telling the truth?

His cheeks flush. “And why didn’t you say anything? You should have told him you made the video. Or, if you were blindsided, you could have brought it up later. Instead, you kept quiet for a year and let your opinion of me fester.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Screw simple. I’m not the only one who messed up here, Henley. You chose not to confront me or tell James the truth. You should have stood up for yourself, but you didn’t. That’s on you.”

My mouth opens but no words come out. Because he’s right.

Shaking his head slowly, he walks away. After three steps he pauses. “I’m not the asshole you think I am.”

I’m not the asshole you think I am.

Graeme’s parting words ping around my brain like a pinball all the way back to the ship’s dining room, where I pick up lunch to go for Walsh and me. I’m so distracted I nearly pour mayonnaise on my salad instead of ranch dressing. Balancing two plates of food, I make my way to our cabin and use my elbow to open the door.