Page 16 of Siren Problems
Of all the places I imagined being stuck with Calder Thorne, the damp, crab-smelling tide shack at the ass-end of Lowtide Bluffs isnotat the top of my fantasy list.
“Remind me again,” I say, wringing out the hem of my soaked sweatshirt, “why you didn’t mention the roof leaks?”
Calder grunts.
Which is about par for the course since we got stranded here twenty minutes ago, thanks to a freak storm surge that slammed into the cove like Poseidon sneezed. My gear’s fine. My nerves, not so much. There’s only one bench, and he’s on it, brooding like it’s his hobby.
“You okay there, broody McTidepool?”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps staring at the wall like it personally offended him.
“I’m talking to you,” I say, flopping onto an overturned crate. “This is the part where you engage in basic human interaction.”
He exhales through his nose, finally turning his head. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“Oh good, a full sentence,” I say. “I was worried I’d have to start using interpretive dance.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re not funny.”
“Not to you,” I shoot back, “but my audience is very specific. Mostly Mira.”
At that, his lips twitch. Barely. But it’s something.
I pull my damp hair into a bun and eye the storm battering the shack windows. The wind howls, waves crashing hard enough to shake the floorboards. The ley lines are buzzing again. Not dangerous—but alert. Like they know something’s off.
“I could’ve gone back to the lab,” I say. “But nooo. The magical council wants to play team-building with the human and the cursed sea prince.”
He stiffens at that. Bingo.
“You’re not cursed,” I add quickly. “Well, you are. But not in thevillainsense. More like a tragic Disney subplot.”
“Stop talking.”
I grin. “Make me.”
Calder stands up so suddenly I almost fall off my crate. He crosses the room in two steps and looms over me—arms crossed, shirt still half unbuttoned from our ocean misadventure earlier. There’s a scratch on his collarbone that’s already fading. Of course it is.
“I don’t want you near the altar again,” he says, low.
I stand up too. We’re toe to toe now, the storm still raging behind us, but it’sthismoment that feels electric.
“Too bad,” I say, calm and clear. “I’m not here for your comfort. I’m here for answers.”
“Some things aren’t meant to be unearthed.”
“And some people shouldn’t live in houses made of secrets and salt.”
We stare at each other.
His jaw flexes. “You’re reckless.”
I smirk. “You’re emotionally constipated.”
He looks like he wants to say something else—somethingreal—but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns, runs a hand through his wet hair, and mutters, “You don’t get it.”
“Thenhelp me get it,” I say, voice softening. “You don’t have to carry whatever this is by yourself.”
He freezes.
