Page 53 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

“Yes. And the transportation will be just for me. He left already.”

She’s frowning now and looking a little worried. “He left?”

“Yes. He left. This morning.”

“He left this morning? From an island with only one boat? With only one way on and off? And he left this morning? When our one boat has been in dock all day?”

“Yes.” Again, I have to push the word through my clenched teeth. Is this what it feels like to be deposed?

“Am I going to end up being interviewed for a true crime documentary a year from now that’s investigating how you murdered your boyfriend and dumped his body into the sea overnight?”

“Oh my God. No. It’s nothing like that.”

“Then how could he have left my island? He couldn’t have just gotten in the water and swam away. He’s not a Navy SEAL.”

“Actually, he is a Navy SEAL. But he didn’t swim. At least I don’t think so. It’s like an hour to the next island by boat. I think he must’ve called his friend—”

Before I can get the word out, she says it for me. Muttering it like a curse.

“Jonah.”

“Yes, Jonah. Apparently they know each other from—”

Suddenly, Clara is pacing, and she waves away the rest of my sentence, as if she either knows where I’m going with this or doesn’t care.

“So you’re that couple.”

She says the phrasethat couplewith overt annoyance.

“What do you mean,that couple?”

“That couple that arranged a special visit to the turtle sanctuary run by Jonah.” She looks at me through narrowed eyes.

There’s a story here, but not sure that I wanna know more about it, I ask hesitantly, “Do you know Jonah?”

Her gaze flickers in the direction of the computer, which makes me think that the email she was composing when I walked in was to Jonah, as well as the muttered curse, take that, you dastard.

“Oh, yes. I know Jonah. I am very familiar with his work.”

All of this is said with a sort of deadly foreboding. Clearly there is a history here.

I clear my throat. “I just want to go home.”

I’m not sure whether my words register, but she marches over to her desk and sits down, a determined look on her face. She picks up the phone and dials a number.

As soon as someone answers, she barks, “I need a tray brought to the office immediately. I need chocolate. I need cookies. And tea.” She glances at me, then adds, “Make that wine. No. The good stuff.”

Then she hangs up and places another call. This one takes longer for the person on the other end to pick up. By the time the person answers—and I’m guessing it’s Jonah—she’s pacing again.

“Jonah, this is an all new low for you. You can’t just kidnap my guests. You need to bring that man back right now.”

“I don’t think he was kidnapped.”

She doesn’t seem to hear me, but hangs up the phone and immediately dials again. “You’ve gone too far this time. Jonah Landrine, you pick up the phone right now or I swear I’m going to come over to that pathetic little island of yours and drag that man back here myself.”

She hangs up again and is already punching in the number again when I snatch the phone out of her hand.

“He wasn’t kidnapped,” I say before she can protest. “Jonah isn’t the one to blame.”

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