Chapter 18 #6
A salty evening wind whipped her skirt around her calves, and Atlas’s exterior doors snapped closed behind them; Chase had followed her onto the deck.
Elbowing past a catering tray, a heat lamp, and through a group of women toasting a promotion, he came after her to the railing.
She studied spindrift floating off the white-capped pulses of surf that frothed below the balcony planks, and watched the beam of a buoy as it illuminated her wine glass with the last glimmers of sunset.
She ignored conversations humming at the outdoor bar with its gaudy string lights and upbeat music—and she didn’t turn.
“If you don’t act nice, I’ll call off the wedding.”
“Good.”
“Good? If. . . if you don’t marry me, do you know what’ll happen? What’ll happen to you, babe?” No more charm. No more smile. “You’ll be deported. Back to fucking Canada. No more Ceretobicin. I’m all you’ve got. You’re alone, and if you don’t stop acting like a—”
Alone.
Except—she wasn’t.
Chase continued to threaten her, and it didn’t matter.
What mattered were the other volunteers and the researchers at MORI—trading tips with Mehar for drying wet data tablets, or watching Jiang locate the ticklish spot on a bat ray’s stomach that made its stinger vibrate like a wagging tail, while Sabrina cackled with laughter beside her.
(Maybe they were even friends?) What mattered was Dr. Dominique Solomon, serious and clever, with a slight smile and a tub of squid.
Erin with her winks and mechanic’s skills.
Adrian’s knowing smirk. Ethan, too. The two-spot in the bungalow.
And Wes.
A step beyond the heat lamps’ glow and the party at the bar, he was here on the deck with his otter sweatshirt, his notched eyebrow raised, his weight shifting from foot to foot, overpriced pommes frites in one hand and his free fingers circled into a diver’s okay? Just as he’d promised he would be.
Waiting.
Waiting, and so patiently impatient while she dealt with Chase. Trusting her. Believing in her. Giving Isabel the space and breath to do this alone for exactly as long as she wanted to, until she wanted him.
“If you think I won’t have my mother cancel our booking at the Officers’ Club—”
She did.
She wanted Wes. Now and always.
“I’m not alone,” she cut across Chase’s vitriol.
“—what?”
She didn’t bother repeating herself.
In her obstinate, triumphant silence, his gaze tracked angrily along the path of her smile—where it snagged on her fiancé. Sudden understanding: a rough inhale jerked his shoulders. Chase seized her arm. “No. No, you stupid cu—”
She threw her wine in his face.
“Urgh!” He choked in shock and pawed at his tannin-burning eyes.
She breathed another smile and called for Wes. “Will you help me, please?”
“As you wish.” His answering grin as he steered toward her through the dancing, chattering, boozy crowd was a beacon that could have guided a thousand iterations of the Nauti Lass home in a storm—before he rounded on Chase.
Then his mouth torqued into a sneer of mock-concern.
Eyes gilded with malice, Wes snagged a used napkin off a tray.
“Jesus, man. Let me help you get that wine out. The shirt’s Brooks Brothers, right?
Expensive as hell. Kind of like your teeth. ”
“W-wha—”
“We shouldn’t let that stain set.” Wes pinned Chase to the railing and dragged the napkin viciously over his face.
“Yeah, because when it comes out that the muscle-control medication you’ve been endorsing causes brain damage, and originates from a lab that’s dumping industrial waste into the ocean—did I mention I’ve got photographs of that?
And when BioPulse gets shut down, when your sweet little endorsement payments dry up?
When the lawsuits come in? How are you going to afford the dry cleaning and dental bills? ”
“What the—who—”
“You don’t know me. But I know everything I need to know about you. I know you just tried to call Isabel a pretty vile slur. So before we get to dry cleaning, you need to wash your mouth out.”
Chase thrashed. “Fuck off, I—”
“Nah. Shut up.” With a single fluid motion, Wes knocked out Chase’s knees, heaved the neurologist up, and pitched him over the balcony.
Splash.
Without hesitation, Isabel threw her engagement ring after him.
“Worthless,” she told Wes’s huff of exertion and surprise.
Below the deck, bubbles foamed. More splashes, more curses.
Satisfied, she turned her back on the noises, ignoring the rush of clamoring, startled bystanders with their spilling drinks and curious cameras—the lenses and phones flashing at her or at the man she’d dumped, it didn’t matter.
She circled her fingers into her own okay.
Then she took Wes’s hand and led him back inside Atlas.
She dropped a tip on her table, before charting a course past the gaping hostess for the parking lot.
“I saw the receipt. Those stones were cubic zirconia. Anyway, I don’t want a ring. ”
“. . . right.” Wes shook his head and slotted his key into the ignition. He was grinning again. “What the hell do you want?”
She leaned over the center console to start Baby’s engine herself. “I want a tattoo.”