Forgive My Fins
Page 19

“Okay…,” he says. “But what about—”
“No time,” I interrupt once more—it feels good to finally be the one getting the last word. “I can dish more details later. First, I have to get you to the Thalassinian royal court so the king can perform the separation ritual, like, last week. Now get moving.”
He looks stunned. Completely stunned. I never thought I’d see the day I shocked Quince Fletcher. And now that it’s here, I don’t have time to enjoy it. I’ve got to get this bond undone before the emotional stuff starts clouding my judgment, before his mer mark begins to form at the start of the next lunar cycle and the process becomes irreversible. Ticktock, ticktock.
“Let me get this straight,” he says, recovering himself. “I’m turning into a mermaid because I kissed you?”
“I don’t remember asking you to kiss me,” I retort.
He scowls and I regret my snide remark. He didn’t ask for any of this to happen, either. There was no way he could have known what he was getting himself into.
“Technically,” I explain, “you’re turning into a merman.”
He gives me a look that makes it clear that he’s not interested in technicalities at the moment.
“Look,” I say. “Can we just forget the last few days and focus on what we need to do right now?”
He shrugs, still sulking, from the look of his scowl. But we don’t have time to indulge his pout. Unencumbered, I can make the swim from Seaview to Thalassinia in under two hours. With biker boy slowing me down, we’ll be lucky to coast in before the suns sets in a few short hours.
“We don’t want to be traveling when the sun goes down. I thought we would have more than enough time to spare, but I didn’t know you couldn’t swim.” I turn and head again for the sea, unbuttoning my shorts as I go. “Follow me.”
When I reach waist-deep water, I slip off my shorts and fling them back onto the beach next to my shoes. Next to a gaping Quince, who hasn’t moved from the spot.
“Get your butt moving,” I shout.
Jerking to a start, Quince finally starts walking. And reaching for the waistband of his cargo pants.
“Uh-uh,” I call out. “You can keep your drawers on.”
“But you—”
“I will be transfiguring,” I explain. “Changing into my fins. You’re not fully mer yet. You will be able to breathe and communicate underwater, but you won’t transfigure into a merman.”
And once the separation ritual is complete, he never will.
“Oh,” he says, eyes slightly glazed and not sounding as if he understands at all.
There will be plenty of time later for Q and A.
“Lose the shirt, though,” I order. “It’ll only add drag and slow us down.”
Without argument, Quince reaches for the hem of his Miami Ink tee and lifts it over his head. His skin gleams in the warm sunlight as he throws the shirt aside, landing right on top of my shorts. Lord love a lobster, he has a beautiful chest. He’s not bodybuilder muscular, but clearly he’s built enough to lift whatever comes along. I can just imagine him earning those muscles in the lumberyard, hefting plywood and two-by-fours to sculpt perfect pecs and a washboard—
“See something you like?”
My eyes jerk up. Caught staring at the off-limits eye candy. From the smoldering look in his eyes, he’s not about to punish me. I shake my head slowly, unconvincingly. It’s the bond. It has to be the bond. What else would—
He takes a step closer.
“No!” I squeak. “We have to, um, get going.”
He stops and has the nerve to laugh.
The bond is already tweaking my thoughts. If I don’t get us out of here and on the way to a full separation soon, I’m going to be in big—okay, bigger—trouble.
Quickly slipping my undies off, I throw them up to join my shorts and shoes on the beach. All I’m wearing is my tank top, which is all I’ll need once I transfigure.
Quince stares at the water right in front of me, as if hoping to be able to see beneath the surface despite the distortion.
“Eyes up, buster.”
In a slow, languid movement his eyes travel up over my wet top—hovering just a little on my cha-chas—and finally up to meet my angry gaze.
I feel my cheeks burn red.
“If we had time,” I warn, “I would so punish you for that.”
“You don’t scare me, Princess,” he replies with a grin.
Deciding that ignoring his comment is the best course of action, I ask, “Would you go lock our stuff in your bike?” The last thing I want is to come back later to find my clothes gone and have to ride all the way home in a finkini. (Manifesting a partial-transfiguration bikini bottom may be great for day-to-day modesty purposes, but straddling a motorcycle would be hard enough for me in regular shorts—I’m not about to attempt it with my backside covered in slippery scales.) Usually I bury my things in the sand beneath the pier, but I’d rather not traipse across the beach in the near-buff in front of Quince.
He lifts a brow.
“You do have a way to lock up stuff in your bike, don’t you?” I taunt.
He looks like he wants to make another smart comment, but then he just shrugs and takes our pile up to the parking lot. He returns a few seconds later, slipping his keys into a Velcro pocket in his pants. That should hold them securely.
Time to get back to work. “The first step is aquarespire,” I say as he approaches me in the surf.