Chapter Three #2
Blaze’s hand is up again. “Can I adopt one?”
Orson doesn’t bother looking at him. “No.”
Blaze nods as if that was a warm-up question. “Bro, wait! Ya know that movie Mr. Popper’s Penguins? He kept ’em as pets in his bathtub. I got a big-ass tub like, steps from the ocean. We could do beach walks, chill sesh, like, seal besties forever!”
Orson finally turns his head. “Sea. Lions… require a saltwater habitat exceeding ten thousand gallons, specialized dietary management, round-the-clock veterinary monitoring, and are federally protected under the Marine Mammal Protection Act of 1972. They are not domestically compatible.”
“Dude.” Blaze puts his hand to his chest. “Those little pups are straight-up blessed to have you, bro.” Then he whispers, “But level with me, man. Have you ever seen Poseidon down there?”
Behind his glasses, the man’s eyes say: this is how civilizations collapse.
“I mean the actual guy. For real? Cause one time I wiped out hard. I mean, bad bro. And I swear this king with a trident just yanked me to shore like, ‘Yo, not today, dude.’ I saw him, man! Full legend mode!”
“That was oxygen deprivation,” the scientist declares.
Blaze slings his meaty arm around Orson and grins at the group. “This guy knows how to party.”
The poor man looks accused of homicide.
“You’re locked in at my table tonight.” Blaze yanks the man into a half-hug. “We’re gettin’ wild. You a Sex on the Beach guy? Not the drink—I mean the full sandy action. Something tells me you let the tide roll in and ride it all the way.” He waggles his brows.
“I—” Orson starts. “I do not consume tropical cocktails.”
“We’ll fix that.”
Shoulders shake and giggles are choking in throats. The table is one snort away from losing it. Dr. Sienna’s eyes find mine, her cheek clamped between her teeth.
I catch Blaze looking at Orson the way you look at your best friend. Genuinely charmed by this man he met eleven minutes ago. No hint of irony, just pure delight. He’s not laughing at him. He isn’t wired that way.
I need to end this meeting before Blaze adopts a marine biologist.
A mental image of Blaze as a father hits me sideways: him at preschool pickup in a tricked-out ATV, teaching a toddler how to surf and chest-bump dolphins, packing Capri Suns and protein powder in the kid’s lunchbox.
That’s more terrifying than the banner.
OH SHIT! The banner.
“Before we wrap.” I sit forward. “The signage issue. It currently reads Seal the Deal instead of our campaign-tested slogan. I’d like to—”
“Ivy, yo! That was me!” Blaze leans back in his chair, grinning. “You’re welcome. Texted that fire to the team at two a.m., oceanside, full moon vibes. It just hit me. Dropped into my soul like a gift from the sea.”
As Blaze recounts the incident (aka his spiritual journey), I feel Cole’s smug eyes lock on me like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“I’m sorry, did he just say I’m innocent?”
“Don’t start,” I whisper-hiss.
“Too late.” He leans in, and his whiskey scent clouds my judgment. “Told ya, not my handiwork, Stopwatch. I’ll let you buy me a drink at the gala to apologize.”
“You’re delusional.”
“And you’re buying.” He winks. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you say the words.”
I hate him.
I genuinely, thoroughly hate him.
“Seal the deal,” Orson says, “is a biologically irresponsible phrase that conflates distinct pinniped species and erodes the scientific credibility of what we are trying to accomplish here.”
“I like it,” Sienna says, casual as sin, propping her boots up as if to show how comfortable she is with the idea.
Orson rotates toward her one vertebra at a time. “It’s inaccurate, Dr. Alvarez.”
“Obviously, but it doesn’t hurt anybody and sounds more fun.” She shrugs. “Take a risk, Echols. A little fun won’t kill you.”
Blaze claps loudly, adjourning a meeting nobody gave him authority to end. Then he zeroes in on Sienna. “Drinks tonight before the event? You, me, Dr. O?”
“No,” Sienna says.
“Just one?”
“Still no.”
“Cool.” Genuinely unfazed, Blaze is already turning. Already three steps into whatever comes next in his scattered mind.
Juliette stops him with a crisp directive. “Room assignments. Dare4Change secured two accommodations. Mr. Tate, you are assigned to share with Mr. Hartwell. Miss Ellison is alone.”
Juliette coldly produces two room key cards from her clipboard.
Blaze scoops them up. Stares. Counts. Stares again.
A thought is being born behind his eyes. I can see it crowning.
“Producers crash together.” He pockets one key and twirls the other between two fingers like a miniature baton. “I’ll take the other room. Gotta keep the ladies’ landing pad clear, bros.”
I’m sorry. What?
He points, as if pairing off lab partners. “That’s cool, yeah?”
All I hear is my boss’s voice. Blaze is our eyes and ears.
My stomach drops straight through the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, Cole’s jaw tightens—barely. I watch him run the same math, arriving at the same destination, half a second behind me.
“Sure,” we say at the same time.
Blaze tosses the key card and it skitters across the table, landing like a dare. I realize three things simultaneously:
One: I misjudged Cole and he knows it.
Two: Seal the Deal is my life now.
Three: I just agreed to share a room with my nemesis.