Xiavera shrugs off her pack, pulls out a zippered bag, and stows the apple inside. “The Galápagos ecosystem is very sensitive. We are on islands that are hundreds of miles from the mainland, with many endemic plant and animal species that have evolved to be completely unique, and not equipped to deal with invaders. You will learn more about the effects of invasive species when you visit the research station in Puerto Ayora in a few days.”

I raise my hand, half a dozen follow-up questions on my tongue. I’m not the only one with a hand up. I peer through the crowd—passengers are murmuring to one another, and a few are watching Xiavera, leaning forward with curious expressions.

Behind us, another Zodiac full of passengers pulls up to the beach. Xiavera flashes the naturalist on board a thumbs-up. “We need to get moving; we don’t want to be the slow group. Don’t worry, we won’t draw and quarter you for the apple. Not this time,” she says to Nikolai. He chuckles along with the other guests. “Just remember the rule: no food on the islands, yes? Everyone ready to chase that golden light? Vamonos.”

She starts up the sandy path and the guests follow in a line. Fishing my phone out of my bag, I open the notepad in my task app and start typing furiously.

A vague idea begins to take shape. I’m just not sure what it looks like exactly. As I’m typing out the questions I want to ask Xiavera later, my toe connects with a rock.

I stumble, but a strong hand catches me by my forearm and I’m yanked backward into a hard body—Graeme’s. The motion flings my daypack off my shoulder and it dangles from the crook of my elbow. My body is flush against his, ass nestled against his hips, back pressed to his chest.

His breath catches. Blood pounds in my ears. After several heartbeats too long, I step away. His fingers are the last to disconnect, slipping slowly from my arm.

I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I mumble, scurrying to catch up with the rest of the group. Stealing a glance over my shoulder, I spot Graeme watching me intently, eyes hooded. I force myself to face forward.

The lagoons turn out to be a bust.

“The flamingoes were here earlier, but they must have moved on to a different part of the island,” Xiavera explains. “Bad luck.” She leads us farther down the path, away from the pungent, briny lakes, and pauses every few dozen yards to point out an interesting plant species or birdsong. I alternate taking pictures with taking notes, my fingers rarely at rest on my phone.

Walsh is next to Graeme again. She’s saying something, a bright smile pasted on her face. His camera is raised, blocking his expression. My shoulders bunch automatically, but I force the muscles to relax.