Including his stepchildren.
She stared at him. Then made a rolling gesture with her hand. “Your turn.”
“Jake Harlowe,” he said, and his voice sounded funny to him. Rougher than usual, etched with surprise that he needed to cover up. He spoke quickly. “Former army intelligence. Now I run a recovery business in Key Largo.”
She grinned widely. “You’re not far away from me.”
“No. I’m not at all,” he said crisply. He didn’t want to get into the implications of hometown proximity. “Let’s get you lunch.”
“What’s a recovery business?” she asked as they walked across the sand to the winding path along the beach. “Like information recovery? With computers?”
“Sort of. My job’s woefully dull,” he said, though that couldn’t be further from the truth. “Tell me more about marine biology. That’s fascinating. I’ve never met a marine biologist. That’s the profession career counselors use when they go to schools and give gung-ho pep talks about all the vast possibilities of future jobs. When they cite interesting, cool, or unusual careers, marine biologist is up there with archaeologist.”
“That’s a conspiracy, actually, among marine biologists and archaeologists. To make sure we all seem super cool.”
He laughed, wishing he didn’t enjoy her company so much. He reminded himself that this lunch date wasn’t a date. It was a mission. He was infiltrating the target.
That was all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A gull squawked as it swooped past the outside of the Coconut Iguana, hunting for leftovers.
The bird wouldn’t find many at Steph’s table. Only one tortilla was left on her plate and Jake had finished his tacos, declaring them some of the best he’d ever had. The meal had been fantastic, the view of the water even better, but the company was the best part. After that searing kiss—a full-body kiss if there ever was one—they’d settled into a late lunch and good conversation.
“See! I told you the fish tacos were yummy. My friend Sandy manages this place, and she told me the reason they taste so good is because of the coconut.”
“Coconut in the fish tacos?” he said, and he clucked his tongue and nodded. “Come to think of it, they did taste like coconut. And hey, better than coconut water.”
“Isn’t it weird that coconuts can be so delish but coconut water isn’t? And truth be told, I didn’t eat much this morning when I went out because I knew I wanted you to take me here.”
“So you saved your appetite for me,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“I did. Do you feel special?”
He laughed. “A little.”
“Then I need to confess something.”
He sat up straighter. His expression turned serious, his mouth now approximating a ruler. “What is it?” he asked, sounding breathless with anticipation.
“Look. I feel this is important that you know,” she said, stopping to pause, then took a deep breath, preparing to drop a bomb on him. She lowered her eyes, as if embarrassed, then raised them, cupping her hand over the side of her mouth. “I’m not actually a marine biologist.”
She frowned and adopted her best sad puppy dog eyes.
He flung his napkin on the table and pushed back in his chair. “That’s it. I’m leaving,” he huffed.
She stretched across the table and patted his chair. “But wait. I need you to know the full truth. I’m actually an archaeologist.”
“Ah, that makes perfect sense,” he said, his green eyes lighting up with laughter. “I take it you’re on a hunt for a long-lost city buried under the sand?”
“Actually, there are some great wrecks here. In the water. Do you dive?”
He nodded. “I have.”
“You should come with me, then. We can check out some boats from long ago.”
He didn’t answer her. He simply shrugged, which was an odd reaction, considering he’d been playing along with her previous remarks. But maybe she was pushing him by suggesting a dive, though that hardly seemed akin to a commitment request that would give a man the heebie-jeebies. Best to keep their conversation free and breezy. She barely knew him, so there was no point in suggesting another date yet, like a dive.
A bright green bird with an orange chin hopped on the railing at the bar and grill, searching for scraps. Steph tugged away at a section of her fish taco and dropped it on the railing.
Jake pointed to the sign on the wooden post: DON’T FEED THE BIRDS. “Scofflaw.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not afraid to break a few rules.”
“Is that so? Tell me more about your lawlessness.”
She tucked her hands under her chin. “One time when I was younger, my mom and stepdad took us to this fancy hotel in Hawaii, and my brother and I fed biscotti from my mom’s coffee each morning to all the tropical birds at the window of our hotel room. Until housekeeping ratted us out, sent the manager to our room, and told us the other guests didn’t like us feeding the birds. Translation: bird poop.”
“Is this your way of telling me you’re not an archaeologist, either? That you’re an ornithologist?”
She laughed and shook her head. “What I meant was that I’m not technically a marine biologist—I just studied it in college. So I wanted you to know that I’m not technically an official ‘marine biologist,’” she said, sketching air quotes as she spoke.