But a giant blow-up apple still might help.

“You know girls like chocolate and flowers, right?” Sawyer asked, smacking my shoulder as he took the seat next to me. “I mean, if you’re ordering blow-ups, there are way better models that serve way better purposes.”

I scoffed.

“Leave the man alone. He’s long-distance wooing,” Garrett remarked from the corner of the room where he was playing a video game.

“Just saying.” Sawyer waggled his eyebrows. “And who the fuck says wooing, anyway? What is this, the eighteen hundreds?”

“Wooing is the only word I can describe for what’s going on over there,” Garrett threw back. “What else would you call constant effort with zero dates and zero encouragement?”

“Harassment,” Sawyer quipped, then cringed. “Shit, that was a step too far.”

I leveled a look at him over my laptop screen.

“I said I was sorry!” He put his hands up. “We all like Morgan. We’re all pulling for you. We all understand why she…did what she did, and we all think she’s worth it.”

“Don’t say we all, like we sit around gossiping about Montgomery’s love life,” Garrett chided.

I honestly didn’t give a fuck if they approved of my actions or my relationship—or lack thereof. The only two opinions I cared about in the world were Morgan’s and Fin’s. “Right. Thanks.”

He spun his chair to face the monitor behind me. “You keeping an eye on Ingrid? She’s starting to look nasty.”

I looked over my shoulder at the named storms heading our way. “Nah. Looks like she might skirt by the Bahamas, and she’s only a two. The boys at Clearwater will handle her. Jerry’s got my eye, though.”

When the fuck had I become callous enough to think of hurricanes as rescues and aftermaths instead of destruction and lives lost? We were called in for storms every year up and down the coast, and it never failed to affect me, but I’d stopped panicking at model projections years ago.

Sawyer whistled low. “He’s a big son of a bitch.”

“And headed this way, if those models are right.” The last thing Puerto Rico needed was another fucking hurricane, but we were here and ready to help if he hit.

“What do you think he’ll end up at?” Sawyer rocked back on his chair.

“That guy?” Garrett slid his chair out from the console and peered at the monitor. “He’s going five.”

“Fuck that. Three,” Sawyer countered. “He’ll lose steam as he passes over the islands there.” He pointed to the model that took the storm south.

“Let’s pray he doesn’t hit them at a three.” I looked at the models closer. “And if he follows that middle projection, then I’m with Garrett. He’s going big.”

Moreno skidded into the room, grabbing the doorframe. “We’ve got a call.”