Page 75 of Deep In Love
“What does that even mean?”
“I saw you kiss her forehead after breakfast this morning.”
“And?”
“You only kiss the forehead of someone you’re fucking or in love with, so which is it?” She doesn’t look away from the control board, focused on her task while she interrogates me. I should have kept Jett around as a buffer.
“No comment.”
“Ugh, you’re the worst.”
“Some have referred to me as the mighty ruler of hell,” I say offhandedly, my thoughts pulling to the blonde waiting for me in bed.
“Who? They seem like they know what they’re talking about.”
I pause, then say, “Charlie.”
“Atta girl,” she says, laughing as she begins the ascent back to the surface.
We’re halfway there when her arm whips out and collides with my chest. She pulls back a few inches, only to hit me again.
The air whooshes from my lungs, from her attack and from the onyx-black fish hovering in the water column. Sharp teeth protrude from its lower jaw, and as we move closer, its flesh turns to a mottled brown. A light glows from the end of the lure extending from its head.
She snaps photos and adjusts camera angles as the ROV moves closer to the deep-sea anglerfish.
A small squeal escapes from me when a lump appears at its side.
“There’s a male!” I point to the mass. “They attach to the female before mating.”
We stare at the marvelous creature, and I snap a few photos to show Charlie in the morning. She’s going to be pissed she missed the sighting. Shit, so will Jett.
It’s too late to get him now. The creature moves on, passing the ROV, and Vivian radios to the main deck after shutting down the cameras.
I busy myself while she works, reading through text messages I’ve ignored while in the lab or identifying species.
Oliver: I have to go back to England early.
Family is having another meltdown. Apparently, it can only be solved with my presence.
The tragic life of a duke.
I hate the title. I would give it up if they would leave me alone.
I mean, you have a castle. Pros and cons. How’s Fergus? Is he alive?
He’s alive.
Send proof of life.
This isn’t a hostage situation.
A photo pops up of my beautiful, not-finicky fern perched atop his plant stand, basking in the final rays of sun for the day. It’s abeautiful photo, minus the large middle finger sticking up on its own.
Rude.
Amy said she would take care of Fergus for you. Her exact words were “I’d love him like he was the offspring of my womb.”
That’s the energy I expect every time I ask you to plant sit. Tell her thank you.
