“Morning?” I offer.
“Mmm.” She’s already eating.
No ceremony. No shame.
She pauses long enough to sweep those dark, shoulder-length curls into a messy ponytail. I’m convinced her olive skin glow is partly powered by the sun but mostly by my jealousy. And howis it possible for a polo shirt to look that form-fitting on a human? It’s not fair.
Who did she sell her soul to? I need answers.
“Hungry?” I ask, because apparently, watching this pocket-sized powerhouse inhale her meal has reduced my vocabulary to single words.
“Always,” she says between chews. “Once we’re on the water, the sea lions don’t give you a lunch break. They’re very ‘me first’ about their entanglements.”
No complaint. No drama. Just facts, delivered with the emotional inflection of a GPS robot reading off latitude and longitude. A realization hits me: I know nothing about her. Sure, that’s because I’ve spent the entire weekend intimidated by her, but still.
Sienna observes my expression in the same clinical way she probably studies distressed animals in the ocean.
Her gaze drops to my muffin like it’s part of the case file.
“You allergic to carbs or what?”
“I’m not—” I gesture vaguely. “I’m not hungry.”
She points her fork. “Ivy, eat the muffin. Or I will personally inform the sea lions you’re afraid of pastries.”
I snort. Against my will.
“You look like hell,” she says, chewing with the grace of a mangy raccoon.
Oh, joy.The smartest, most stunning woman here is calling me out on the fact that my under-eye bags are actively performing a full Broadway musical.
Working title: “The Shared Room Where It Happened.”
“Thanks, Dr. Alvarez. So glad you chose my table.”
“Not like that.” She dismisses my sarcasm with another bite of bacon. “Like something happened, and now you’re hoping if you sit still no one will realize you’re one wrong word away from losing it.”
“I am not upset. I’m working. And you’ve known me for, what, forty-eight hours? That’s not enough time to learn my coffee order, let alone my emotional baseline.”
“Long enough to see you’re lying to yourself.”
Ouch. Her zero percent tact is one hundred percent correct.
I go back to my iPad. Tap. Scroll. And adjust a text box that was already correct because that’s my coping mechanism now.
Sienna drags a strip of bacon through the syrup moat around her pancake castle.
“You ready to download the drama?”
“No.” I fixate on the tablet in my hands. “There is no drama.”
“Your shoulders disagree.”
I pause, meeting her gaze. “Do they now?”
“Your posture is clear. You’re calculating the best angle to hurl that smoothie at someone.”
I look at my smoothie. It’s thick, green, and heavy. “Thought has crossed my mind.”
