“I think the original Bob retired somewhere warmer a long time ago.”
“I think the original Bob is hiding beneath that beard. Do you think he’d take a picture with us?”
“I think going whale watching is as close to tourism as I can conscientiously endure. No selfies.”
Grinning around her provided wooden spork—because whatever they were eating had enough lumpy parts to require some stabbing—Zoey shook her head.
“You’re a selfie snob.”
“You’re…” He paused, considering it. Finally, Graham said, “You’re trouble. Do you like your goop?”
“I love my goop.”
“Yeah, me too. Damn that book.”
It wasn’t fair how good-looking this guy was. Zoey licked her spork nervously. Was he thinking about kissing her? Because she was thinking about—
Pain. Lots and lots of pain.
“Whoa. What’s wrong?”
Zoey gestured frantically at her face. “Splinter in my tongue. Spinter in mah tongue!”
“Let me see.”
“No, you can’t—ahh! Let go!”
“That’s right, say ahh.” Graham winced, a mixture of concern and amusement in his eyes. “Ooh, that looks painful.”
It was. It really was. Graham pulled out a knife from his pocket, flipping it open. “Hold still. Come on. Don’t be a baby. I’m not gonna—oops.”
For a horrifying moment, Zoey’s brain refused to acknowledge what that oops might mean. Then Graham, beaming with pride, held up a half-centimeter-long wooden splinter.
“All good.”
“Did you use the knife?”
“Only a little.” At her look, Graham chuckled. “I have godsons. That’s not the first tongue splinter I’ve plucked.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, feeling her face heating. He must have known she was embarrassed because Graham scooted closer, arm brushing hers.
“Had to earn my keep, gorgeous.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
The blare of a megaphone made them both jump. “Back to the bus,” the tour guide said. “Please return to the bus.”
“An air horn is better,” Graham whispered to Zoey as she worked her jaw, squishing her tongue back and forth to make sure it was there. “Come on. Let’s beat the masses.”
This time, Graham darted in and took the front seat, pulling Zoey in next to him.
“That’s my seat.” A disgruntled passenger said, glaring at them, but when Zoey went to move, Graham snuck his pinkie around hers, tugging lightly in silent request to stay.
“Yes, and I totally stole it. What the wife wants, the wife gets.”
After patting the free seat next to them, Graham handed the guy a Tourist Trap business card, printed in the style of a Monopoly “go directly to jail” playing card.
“Life’s rough, isn’t it? Here’s a coupon.”
Chapter 8
Their boat was not the stuff dreams were made from.
Graham didn’t consider himself a particularly picky man, but even he gave the vessel some serious side-eye as they boarded. Zoey was either oblivious or even less picky than Graham because she ignored the ship completely in favor of reading aloud from the brochure.
“Even though peak gray whale viewing season is during their migration in April, a variety of sea life can be seen in the summer months in Resurrection Bay. Sea otters, sea lions, killer whales…oh! Listen to this. Dolphins often swim next to the ships.”
Lost in her reading, she was oblivious to everything around them. Graham placed his hand on her shoulder, gently steering her forward as they did the tourist shuffle toward the SS Problematic.
“Watch your step, Zoey.”
Graham didn’t make it down to Seward much, and he never came during summer. Unlike the Cook Inlet outside Anchorage, Resurrection Bay was more than deep enough to accommodate the massive cruise ships visiting during peak tourist season. The little coastal town was a nice place to get lunch and maybe hike up Marathon Mountain for some fun. But the sheer number of tourists waiting around for whale watching tours in Seward was overwhelming.
Their boat was decently sized, but it seemed like far too many people for comfort. Graham didn’t love how everyone was stuffed elbow-to-elbow with each other or how they ended up wedged into an assigned seat with another couple with only inches of tabletop and a solid twenty-five years of life between them.
“Hey there,” Graham tried to greet the other pair cheerfully, earning himself a kick in the knee from the little boy and the girl bursting into tears.
The family seated in the next table over turned around and gave Graham nasty looks.
“What did I do?” he asked plaintively.
“Maybe kids don’t like you,” Zoey teased, setting her Alaska bag on her lap so there was room for the Styrofoam cups being placed in front of them by the boat crew.
“My godsons love me. I’m cool.”
The captain’s voice over a scratchy loudspeaker cut off whatever she would have said next, although by the sparkle in her eye, Graham doubted it was flattering to his godfather awesomeness.
“We’re having reports of a rough sea today, folks. If anyone would like to disembark prior to leaving port, now would be a good time to do so. If not, enjoy your lunches.”
Pushing one of the cups his way, Zoey said, “You get what Lana ordered. If you don’t want the vegetarian chili, you can have my fish chowder.”
“Hmm. I hate to say it, but there’s fish chowder, and there’s fish chowder. That is neither one.”
“You know the millionaire heiress who was my travel partner would have eaten either one of these without complaint.”
“Yes, and she won my last reindeer dog eating competition. Proper chowder is an art form.”
“Mmmmm. It’s soooooo good.” Zoey moaned in pleasure.
“Don’t go all Sally on me now.”
She popped an oyster cracker in her mouth, then squeaked as the boat dipped, splashing water over the bow and chowder over her lap. With a sad little noise, she uprighted the Styrofoam cup and scraped the last third of her meal off her jeans.
“Karma.” Graham nodded sagely. “For saying I’m not cool.”
“I didn’t say it,” Zoey replied, a cute little smirk on her lips. “I thought it, but I never said it.”